:  ; 


TAMAM 


TAMAM 


IIPI I  ^1 1 

fin 


TAMAM 


BT 

CHARLES   CHILTON   MOORE 


NEW  YORK  AND  WASHINGTON 
THE   NEALE   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
THE  NEALE    PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


To 

HELEN  MOORE  COOK 
The  Livmg  Embodiment 

of  a 
Memory,  Ineffable 


2137374 


TAMAM 

There  are  thoughts  which,  through  words,  can  find  no 
outlet.  The  composer  attempts  •  the  expression  of  these ; 
and  where  there  is  concerned  the  depicting  of  a  series  of 
events  that  has  led  up  to  a  sublime  conclusion  the  form  of 
the  symphony  is  used. 

The  greater  symphonies  have  comprised  five  parts.  Each 
of  the  parts  is  complete  in  itself,  such  that  the  theme  may 
have  reached  its  climax,  and  apparently,  leave  no  reason 
for  its  continuance.  The  one  requisite  is  that  the  same 
themal  motif  shall  predominate  throughout;  and  though 
the  key  may  vary  in  the  intermediate  parts,  after  hav- 
ing completed  a  cycle,  howsoever  elaborate  in  construc- 
tion, it  must  terminate  in  the  key  employed  for  the  intro- 
duction of  the  motif. 

Life  is  a  symphony,  and1  we  make  up  the  great  variety 
of  instruments  used  in  its  production.  Some  of  us  are  the 
blare  of  the  trumpets;  some,  the  brazen  clash  of  the 
cymbals;  and  some,  the  sullen  rumble  of  the  kettle-drums. 
Some  are  the  squeak  of  the  piccolo;  some,  the  nasal  twang 
of  the  clarionet;  and  some,  the  gentle,  plaintive  voice  of 
the  flute.  Some  are  the  soulful  tones  of  the  violin;  some, 
the  rich  and  sonorous  quivers  of  the  'cello;  and  some,  just 
plain  "  second  fiddlers."  Many  are  in  the  corner  of  the 
"utility  man,"  scratching  sandpapered  blocks,  blowing 
gurgling  whistles  and  jangling  triangles. 

7 


8  TAMAM 

The  symphony  is  produced  once  in  every  generation. 
It  begins  at  the  cradle  with  an  "  allegro  "  movement,  and 
a  series  of  possible  soloists  soon  make  themselves  heard. 
Most  of  the  efforts  prove  to  be  a  "wasted  puff,"  but 
finally  the  primary  theme  is  suggested,  and  from  it  there 
can  be  determined  the  disguise  in  which  the  secondary 
theme  may  possibly  appear.  When  it  comes,  we  get  the 
motif,  and  the  other  aspirants  are  relegated  to  the  posi- 
tions of  harmony  constructors.  The  motif  dances  before 
us  and  vanishes  with  the  budding  of  youth.  And  so  closes 
Part  I.  We  have  seen  the  flower,  and  are  satisfied  without 
witnessing  the  stage  of  fruiting. 

Part  II  of  the  symphony  opens  with  a  graceful  "  adagio  " 
movement,  then  perhaps  quickly  changing  to  an  "  allegro, 
con  grazia,"  and  we  may  have  it  in  "  five-four  "  time,  the 
rhythm  in  the  dance  of  witches.  There  is  much  distrac- 
tion through  this  change  of  time,  and  we  forget  the  motif. 
If  may  be  the  flower  was  more  attractive  than  the  budding 
fruit  with  is  dismantled  petals.  Then  we  notice  the  fasci- 
nating witch-dance  disappears  when  the  motif  comes  upon 
the  scene.  It  always  appears  accompanied  by  the  "  adagio," 
and  we  resent  it  until  we  realize  the  fruit  is  taking  shape 
and  promises  a  color  of  its  own.  It  may  be  the  "  allegro, 
con  grazia "  was  attractive  owing  to  its  contrast  against 
the  "  adagio,"  and  we  are  glad  the  motif  came  again.  And 
though  we  saw  it  only  in  the  awkward  stage  of  fruiting, 
it  gave  hope  of  a  rich  color  and  fine  flavor  at  the  time  of 
ripening.  This  would  tempt  us  to  look  for  the  motif  in 
any  succeeding  part  of  the  symphony,  should  one  be  con- 
structed; or  if  we  have  heard  the  finale,  we  are  satisfied. 

When  a  new  part  opens  with  the  slow  and  measured 
cadence  of  the  "  andante,"  we  know  the  serious  part  of 
life  has  been  reached.  There  is  to  be  no  more  frivolity, 


TAMAM  9 

unless  it  be  hysteria,  the  laugh  that  alternates  with  tears. 
Life  is  real  now,  and  must  survive  or  perish.  The  motif 
cannot  be  changed,  or  made  to  disappear  from  the  center 
of  the  stage.  It  has  acquired  too  much  momentum,  and 
must  continue  in  its  gyrations,  wild  though  they  be.  The 
fruit  has  ripened  externally,  and  may  have  the  rich  color; 
but  its  flavor  has  not  been  determined,  nor  the  nature  of 
the  larva  that  may  live  at  its  core.  We  know  it  may  fall 
at  any  moment — even  while  the  external  appearance  is 
sound — and  burst  open,  displaying  its  rotten  interior.  Also, 
we  know  a  scaly  coating  may  conceal  sound  flesh.  This 
part  of  the  symphony  harrows  us  too  much,  and  we  are 
relieved  when  it  has  closed. 

Part  IV  may  possibly  be  an  "  allegro  molto  vivace,"  but 
probably  a  "  largo  lamentoso."  The  chance  is  there  will 
be  sadness,  and  not  happiness,  in  this  movement  of  life's 
symphony,  for  we  know  death  must  come  with  its  close. 
Any  "  five-four "  movement  here  would  be  the  childlish- 
ness  of  infirmities;  the  ghost-like  dance  of  Death's  shadow. 
We  are  prepared  to  weep,  and  have  the  mourning  dress 
ready  for  use  on  short  notice. 

The  last  part  in  the  life  symphony  is  the  remembrance. 
We  may  call  it  the  reverberations  of  the  life  that  has 
passed.  This  fifth  part  is  frequently  no  more  than  a 
"  coda  " — a  hasty  summing  up  of  the  themes  by  the  con- 
spicuous instruments  that  made  up  the  harmony,  once 
more  sounded  that  its  final  echoes  may  die  away  in  the 
abyss  of  oblivion. 

The  composer  must  exhaust  his  effort  and  reach  the 
climax  in  each  part.  If  he  should  not  be  able  to  continue 
it  into  a  symphony,  then  his  work  would  have  been 
finished.  It  is  this  ability  to  rekindle  fresh  fires,  that  lets 
the  symphony  develop. 


10  TAMAM 

Life  is  made  up  of  distinct  parts — youth,  manhood,  age, 
death,  remembrance.  Who  knows  how  many  of  its  inter- 
vening parts  will  be  completed?  Who  would  risk  saving 
their  climax  for  a  part  other  than  that  being  constructed? 
Whatever  be  your  motif,  summon  all  of  your  resources 
and  divest  your  soul  of  its  uttermost  possibilities,  that  in 
each  part  you  may  bring  forth  all  the  music. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

I.  "  FOREST    RETREAT  " 13 

II.  ARLINGTON ^0 

III.  THE  POTTER'S  FIELD 128 

IV.  THE   SEA 183 

V.  OBLIVION 


TAMAM 


" FOREST     RETREAT ' 

"  O  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness ! " 

"  FOREST  RETREAT  "  is  typical  of  those  homes 
in  the  South  whose  existence  dates  prior  to  the 
civil  war,  and  around  which  are  clustered  incidents, 
stories  and  sacred  spots,  which  posterity  inculcate  in 
their  creed  of  faith  in  the  blood  of  their  ancestors. 
And  the  more  distant  the  ancestry  the  more  enchant- 
ing the  stories,  for  the  more  transitions  there  must 
have  been,  until  it  is  difficult  to  separate  fact  from 
fiction.  But  this  only  lends  to  the  charm. 

Each  of  such  homes  has  its  individual  mark  of 
distinction.  Some  distant  master  may  have  been 
the  host  of  a  famous  soldier,  statesman  or  author. 
Or  the  place  may  have  been  the  battle-ground  of  a 
duel  between  great  politicians  with  eloquence  and 
argument  as  weapons,  or  perhaps  even  dirks  or  fire- 
arms ;  for  at  that  time  the  culture  of  the  community 
was  in  the  country,  and  the  shade  of  the  woodland 
was  often  a  political  arena. 

The  kaleidoscopic  shift  of  war,  the  division  of 
estate,  and  the  changes  in  economic  conditions  were 


14  TAMAM 

not  without  effect  on  these  great  home  places.  The 
very  contour  of  the  land  seems  to  have  changed ;  and 
the  returning  visitor,  in  after  years,  may  have  to 
search  for  a  mark  of  identity  in  order  to  connect  his 
memory  with  old  associations. 

The  base  line  of  reminiscent  triangulation  may 
have  been  completely  obliterated,  but  there  remains 
one  undisturbed  place,  even  though  time  may  efface 
all  others,  and  conditions  bring  about  the  sale  of 
the  home  until  it  will  have  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  uncouth  tobacco-grower,  or  the  purse-inflated 
magnate  who  would  buy  for  himself  a  heritage.  For 
even  these  men  will  doff  their  hats  at  the  gates  of  the 
family  graveyard  in  respect  to  the  memories  held 
by  those  mute  historians,  the  tombstones. 

At  "  Forest  Retreat  "  the  graveyard  is  like  that 
of  any  other  country  home  of  similar  pretensions : 
a  small  rectangular  enclosure  with  tall  aspens  and 
pines,  surrounded  by  its  hedge  and  stone  wall. 
These  trees  seem  appropriate,  for  the  aspens 
tremble  and  the  pines  moan ;  that  is,  if  you  feel  that 
way.  But  the  graveyard  is  not  always  sad.  The 
table-shaped  tombstones  have  many  times  served  at 
a  children's  impromptu  tea-party.  This  form  of 
gravestone  is  a  stone  table  made  by  placing  a 
rectangular  slab,  approximately  the  length  of  a 
man,  on  four  stone  legs,  about  two  feet  in  height. 
It  must  have  been  designed  for  more  than  marking 
the  resting-place  of  the  dead,  for  it  well  serves  the 
same  purpose  for  the  living.  Little  girls  have 
played  "  dolls  "  and  "  keep  house  "  under  the  stone 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  15 

table,  while  boys,  with  goat-like  instinct,  have  jumped 
from  slab  to  slab.  What  did  they  know  of  the 
lichen-covered  epitaph  terminating  with  a  verse  from 
the  Bible?  When  they  had  tired  of  their  play  they 
scratched  out  the  moss  with  a  nail,  and,  by  a  labor- 
ious process,  read  some  of  the  legend.  Then  their 
imagination  would  recall  certain  occasions  when  they 
had  heard  tender  references  to  the  dead  one,  and 
straightway  an  envy  was  born.  How  nice  it  would 
feel,  they  thought,  to  be  spoken  of  in  subdued  tones, 
to  have  one's  own  name  carved  in  stone,  and  with  it 
a  verse  from  the  Bible :  "  He  is  not  dead,  but 
sleepeth !  "  Why  not  lie  down  under  the  slab,  shut 
your  eyes,  and  in  your  childish  fancy  see  the  tear- 
ful mother  as  she  repeats  your  virtues?  Nor  would 
it  be  the  first  time  it  had  been  done.  It  is  only  that 
period  in  -child-life  when  the  glory  in  posthumous 
fame  is  conceived. 

As  childhood  grows  into  youth  we  climb  the  trees 
to  carve  names  on  the  topmost  branches,  not  our 
name,  but  hers.  Then  youth  blends  into  manhood 
and  again  we  go  to  the  graveyard.  Perhaps  this 
time  a  young  woman,  unconsciously,  leads  the 
way. 

Long  ago  the  features  of  sadness  in  "  Forest  Re- 
treat's "  garden  of  sleep  have  been  eliminated,  be- 
cause no  one  is  ever  buried  there  now.  Not  in  our 
memory  do  we  recall  fresh  earth.  We  have  heard, 
from  the  darkies,  of  the  morning  when  "  old  Mos- 
ter  "  died ;  yes,  heard  it  so  long  ago  that  we  have 
told  it  to  our  own  children.  We  can  even  remem- 


16  TAMAM 

ber  when  the  singing  of  "  Marsa's  in  the  cold,  cold 
ground  "  would  send  that  sensation  of  pent  emotion 
through  us,  till  our  faces  assumed  a  preoccupied 
look,  as  though  we  were  gazing  into  the  past,  just 
'as  we  remember  to  have  seen  those  do  who  in  reality 
remembered  the  old  man.  Here,  in  the  far  left-hand 
corner  as  you  enter,  he  rests,  and  his  wife  next  in 
position.  Not  that  they  died  first,  for  they  had 
moistened  the  graves  of  their  own  dear  ones  with 
tears  of  anguish ;  but  without  prearranged  plan  the 
place  of  their  resting  had  been  set  aside. 

Here  the  old  couple  had  come  many  times  to  talk 
on  things  of  momentous  importance.  It  may  have 
been  for  consolation  during  the  critical  illness  of  a 
child.  It  may  have  been  to  discuss  the  apportion- 
ment of  part  of  the  estate  as  a  family  wedding 
neared.  It  may  have  been  when  they  made  their 
wills.  Here  was  a  spot  for  meditation,  for  no  one 
came  near  if  the  place  was  occupied.  The  most 
sacred  confession  ever  made  was  not  surrounded  by 
such  privacy  as  one  enjoyed  within  these  walls. 

Here,  it  was,  a  daughter  came  one  day  with  a  tall 
swarthy  one  in  the  bloom  of  manhood.  The  next  fall 
they  were  married,  even  while  the  critical  strain  of 
1860  was  at  its  greatest  tension.  Duty  soon  called 
him,  and  here  they  came  again.  In  the  uniform  of 
a  Confederate  officer  he  gave  her  his  parting  saluta- 
tion, mounted  his  horse,  and  found  his  body-servant 
at  the  road  gate.  He  was  soon  on  his  way  to  join 
"  Morgan's  Men."  When  she  left  the  graveyard 
the  world  was  wrapped  in  the  hush  of  sudden  silence, 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  17 

and  no  living  form  was  in  sight,  for  the  way  to  her 
room  had  been  cleared.  After  this  she  was  jocu- 
larly known  as  a  "  war  widow." 

They  were  not  altogether  doleful  days  in  the 
early  part  of  the  struggle.  The  Confederacy  had 
won  victories  in  some  large  engagements.  Morgan's 
daring  had  stirred  the  Ohio  valley  until  it  was  a  bil- 
lowy sea,  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  movements  was 
only  equaled  by  that  of  his  men,  for  this  body  com- 
prised the  wealth  and  aristocracy  of  central 
Kentucky. 

But  again  to  the  graveyard!  There  is  a  mound 
of  fresh  earth;  they  are  bringing  the  soldier's  body 
home.  In  the  frosty  winds  of  a  winter's  morning 
they  placed  him  there.  Oh,  the  icy  shiver  of  the 
aspens,  the  wail  of  the  pines,  the  crunching  of  the 
snow !  The  glistening  frost  has  a  dazzling  effect. 
The  evergreens  are  studded  with  diamonds,  in  carni- 
val dress  at  the  return  of  a  hero. 

She  stands  through  the  ceremony  in  a  perfunctory 
way,  perhaps  seeing  herself  in  stunning  black,  with 
a  dash  of  white  adroitly  placed  about  her  throat  and 
wrists,  no  longer  only  a  "  war  widow."  How  strange 
it  is,  and  how  merciful,  that  in  our  greatest  trials 
Nature  will  come  to  the  rescue  and  throw  over  us  a 
stupor  of  indifference.  Just  when  we  fear  the  heart 
cords  will  be  torn,  the  moment  of  supreme  anguish 
gives  way  to  an  idle  vision.  To  you  only,  O  God, 
can  we  ascribe  this  blessed  phenomenon. 

But,  Graveyard,  you  will  put  a  tinge  of  sadness 
on  our  romance.  This  happened  so  long  ago,  is  it 


18  TAMAM 

yet  necessary  the  enthusiasm  of  our  youth  should  be 
kept  subdued?  You  possess  not  only  the  secrets  of 
our  sorrow,  but  the  secrets  of  our  joy  which  we  im- 
plore you  to  keep  even  more  sacredly.  And  there 
are  your  wonderful  secrets  of  mystery,  for  was  there 
ever  a  graveyard  without  these? 

It  was  not  our  graveyard  that  had  the  mystery ; 
that  is,  for  us ;  though  ours  doubtless  supplied 
mysteries  for  others.  We  found  more  in  the  grave- 
yard of  our  neighbors ;  which  idea  originated  with 
the  negroes,  who,  in  the  spirit  of  faithfulness  to 
their  masters'  homes,  found  certain  conditions  else- 
where that  made  their  own  eminently  superior.  Just 
so,  we  made  our  moonlight  escapades  to  neighboring 
farms ;  laid  the  scenes  of  strange  and  mysterious 
conditions  elsewhere — not  at  home.  Even  if  we  never 
saw  the  Smallwood  graveyard,  we  knew  all  about  it. 
Nothing  strange  was  ever  seen  there,  because  no  one 
ever  went  there  to  see  it ;  but  of  course  strange  things 
must  have  been  occurring  since  that  Christmas  week 
Miss  Smallwood  was  buried.  We  have  heard  the 
story  so  often  we  could  repeat  it  just  as  our  Uncle 
Jesse  used  to  tell  it  in  the  after  years,  when  we  were 
gathered  on  the  front  steps  for  a  summer  evening's 
relapse  into  reminiscences,  and  somebody  was  pres- 
ent who  was  to  hear  it  for  the  first  time. 

"  The  old  Smallwood  place  had  passed  down 
through  the  branches  of  the  family,"  Uncle  Jesse 
would  explain,  "  and,  in  division  among  the  heirs, 
the  sons  had  received  their  portion  in  the  shape  of 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  19 

unimproved  fields  because  they  were  able  to  build 
homes.  But  the  old  house  and  its  immediate  sur- 
roundings had  gone  to  the  three  daughters,  it  being 
easily  foreseen  they  would  remain  maiden  ladies  in- 
definitely, and  must  have  the  assurance  of  at  least  a 
shelter.  The  sons,  in  the  hope  of  doing  better  in  the 
far  West,  had  sold  their  farms  to  the  more  preten- 
tious landholders  around  them.  This  is  why  the 
three  Smallwood  sisters  were  left  alone  in  the  old 
stone  house.  The  outskirts  of  the  larger  adjoin- 
ing farms  seemed  to  encroach  to  the  very  borders  of 
its  garden,  on  the  one  side,  and  its  orchard,  on  the 
other,  and  of  course  the  sisters  grew  queer  as  they 
grew  old ;  that  is,  they  seemed  queer  to  others.  It 
was  always  so  quiet  about  the  place:  no  horses,  no 
dogs,  and  none  of  the  ordinary  life  about  a  farm. 
They  did  all  of  their  housework,  and,  except  through 
old  Jim  Arterpea,  who  worked  their  garden,  had  no 
communication  with  the  outer  world.  Old  Jim  was 
what  the  darkies  called  '  Guinea  Nigger  ' ;  from  which 
it  was  understood  that  he  was  an  original  importa- 
tion from  Africa.  He  had  been  brought  over  and 
sold  to  a  Louisiana  rice  planter  and,  after  the  war, 
had  drifted  in  slow  stages,  until  here  he  was  in 
Kentucky,  bereft  of  friends  or  sympathy  because  he 
had  no  pride  in  ancestry ;  no  great  family  had  ever 
owned  him.  With  a  heavy  growth  of  kinky  beard 
— he  was  the  only  negro  in  the  country  who  had  a 
beard — an  enormous  shaggy  head,  and  an  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech,  of  course  he  too  was  queer.  Even 
if  he  had  not  been  queer  at  first,  the  Smallwood 


20  TAMAM 

sisters  would  have  made  him  so ;  and  if  he  had  been, 
they  would  have  made  him  even  more  so. 

"  The  years  went  by  with  no  change  in  the  Small- 
wood  sisters.  They  were  old  in  their  youth,  but 
their  quiet  and  unruffled  life  had  preserved  them  in 
their  age,  so  a  period  of  several  years  made  practi- 
cally no  change  in  their  appearance;  only  their 
queerness  increased,  and  this  even  to  those  who  had 
never  seen  them. 

"  When,  one  Christmas  morning,  old  Jim  came 
over  to  '  Forest  Retreat '  to  tell  of  the  death  of  one 
of  the  sisters,  of  course  there  was  a  mystery.  '  Some- 
thing strange  about  those  people.  Never  knowed  no 
one  to  die  on  Christmas  morning  before,'  whispered 
the  darkies.  I  went  over  because  I  knew  them  bet- 
ter than  any  one  else,  and  some  one  had  to  see  to 
the  funeral  arrangements.  Word  was  sent  to  the 
undertaker  in  town,  and  he  reached  the  house  that 
afternoon  with  a  modest  black  wood  casket  adorned 
with  four  heavy  metal  handles  of  the  usual  style. 
The  old  sister  was  properly  laid  out,  and  the  casket 
placed  in  the  parlor  to  await  burial  next  day.  I  put 
some  extra  wood  on  the  fire,  also  kindled  a  fire  in  the 
adjoining  room,  and  told  the  two  sisters  I  would 
return  by  nightfall,  and  '  sit  up  with  the  corpse.' 

"  Those  who  may  have  performed  such  a  service 
know  it  is  not  without  its  compensations.  It  is  un- 
canny, of  course,  but  there  is,  connected  with  it, 
the  idea  of  a  certain  heroism,  the  importance  with 
which  you  are  invested,  and  the  obligation  the  rela- 
tives feel.  Then  the  drinking  of  strong  coffee,  which 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  21 

is  generally  supplied,  excites  the  mind  and  stimulates 
the  imagination ;  and  as  the  vigil  is  usually  taken  by 
pairs,  it  is  neither  a  bad  place  nor  time  to  talk.  But 
this  time  I  went  alone,  and  when  the  two  sisters  stated 
their  desire  to  relieve  me  during  the  night  I  assured 
them  I  would  need  no  relief  before  daylight." 

Here  Uncle  Jesse  would  pause  a  moment  and 
study  the  effect  his  story  was  having  on  the  new 
listener. 

"  Now  I  have  always  had  my  doubts  about  the 
necessity  of  this  sitting-up  custom,  and  had  come  to 
believe  that  primarily  it  was  intended  as  a  courtesy 
to  the  corpse.  So  on  this  occasion  I  intended  to 
sit  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  doze  throughout  the 
night,  with  that  kind  of  a  feeling  that  I  could  be 
awake  beyond  suspicion  should  the  two  sisters  come 
to  insist  upon  relieving  me.  Leaving  the  door  be- 
tween the  two  rooms  partly  open,  I  put  extra  fuel 
in  the  fireplace  before  me,  for  the  night  was  very 
cold.  I  then  turned  my  lamp  high,  so  it  would 
brighten  the  room  as  much  as  possible,  squared  my- 
self before  the  fire,  and  was  enjoying  no  small  degree 
of  comfort. 

"  What  a  study  the  fire  is,  and  its  companionship 
was  never  more  strikingly  illustrated  than  it  was  that 
night.  I  watched  the  smoke  curl  up  the  chimney ; 
then  the  puff  and  flicker  of  a  flame  on  a  splinter  as  it 
flashed  up  with  a  kind  of  human  braggadocio,  and, 
like  the  human  braggart,  die  out  with  a  pitiful 
flicker.  What  a  time  to  think  in  those  channels 
where  the  mind  wanders  at  its  own  ease  and  free- 


22  TAMAM 

dom !  Then  is  when  the  happiest  scenes  of  life 
come  before  you.  You  feel  satisfied  with  your  life, 
whatever  it  may  have  been,  because  Nature,  in  her 
benevolent  providence,  generally  erases  from  mem- 
ory the  jagged  edges,  and  magnifies  the  smooth 
places,  until  it  is  probable  that  at  the  close  of  every 
life  the  balance  is  safely  on  the  side  of  happiness. 

"  I  thought  of  the  old  lady  whose  remains  I  was 
watching,  not  as  dead,  but  wondered  what  romance 
in  life  she  had  seen.  At  one  time  she  must  have 
been  a  country  schoolgirl.  Though  I  had  not  known 
her,  I  now  saw  her,  in  the  fire  pictures  before  me, 
the  bloom  of  youth  on  her  face,  and  with  the  other 
children  out  at  play.  I  studied  the  fire  further,  but 
she  became  lost  in  their  midst. 

"  At  first  it  was  a  little  hazy,  but  soon  I  began 
seeing  decidedly  clearer.  It  was  the  old  schoolhouse, 
and  I  was  young  again.  We  were  giving  the  '  Sleep- 
ing Beauty  '  at  the  school  exhibition  on  Christmas 
eve.  I  was  the  herald  that  blows  the  blast  on  the 
bugle  as  an  announcement  to  the  people  that  the 
king  was  about  to  speak.  What  an  important  per- 
son, even  more  so  than  the  king,  because  I  must 
precede  him.  How  strange  it  all  seemed  that  I  was 
again  blowing  that  old  horn,  which  had  been  bor- 
rowed from  a  hunter  for  the  great  occasion. 

"  There  is  the  noise  and  hubbub  of  a  crowd.  All 
the  children's  parents  are  assembled  to  witness  the 
exhibition.  The  time  for  the  performance  is  indi- 
cated by  the  tinkle  of  a  small  bell,  and  the  voices 
become  quiet  in  eager  expectation.  The  king  and 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  23 

his  courtiers  are  supposed  to  be  approaching,  and  I 
must  go  out  first  on  the  improvised  stage  before  the 
wonderful  audience  and  announce  him. 

"  My  knees  shake,  but  my  determination  is  steady. 
I  have  so  long  looked  forward  to  this  great  moment, 
I  to  be  the  first  one  the  audience  is  to  see !  I  go, 
but  don't  get  near  enough  to  the  center  of  the  stage, 
so  the  teacher  whispers  from  the  door,  '  Go  out 
farther.' 

"  Why  did  she  do  that?  I  was  almost  steady.  I 
take  another  step,  then  put  the  horn  against  my 
lips  with  difficulty,  because  my  lower  lip  was  in  an 
uncontrollable  tremble.  But  I  must  not  take  too 
much  time,  so  my  scarlet  cheeks  swell  out,  and  I  blow 
with  all  my  force. 

"  Oh !  guardian  angel  of  little  children,  why  did 
you  forsake  me?  Why  was  my  heroic  blast  to  be- 
come a  wasted  puff,  resembling  more  the  cough  of 
a  cow?  A  long,  lean,  freckle-faced  boy,  who  stood 
in  a  window  in  the  rear,  gave  a  horrible  guffaw,  and 
the  audience  smiled. 

"  I  rush  out  the  back  door — I  will  run  away  and 
come  back  some  day  a  real  rich  man,  and  then  they 
will  wish  they  had  not  laughed.  No,  I  don't  want  to 
be  consoled!  I  slip  through  the  crowd  in  the  hall- 
way, go  out  into  the  back  porch,  then  down  toward 
the  barn.  It  is  cold  and  dark  but  I  am  away  from 
them  all,  and  intend  to  stay,  even  if  I  freeze,  because 
then  they  would  be  sorry  for  having  made  a  poor  boy 
freeze  to  death.  The  darkness  and  the  cold  make  me 
feel  clammy,  and  shivers  creep  over  me.  I  sit  down 


24  TAMAM 

on  the  stile,  and  lean  back,  because  I  am  tired  and 
don't  know  just  what  to  do.  My  legs  begin  to  feel 
stiff  with  cold,  so  I  conclude  I  will  get  up  and  walk 
over  to  the 

"  The  fire  has  burned  out  and  the  room  is  dark. 
How  can  I  be  in  such  a  strange  place  as  this?  Can 
I  arouse  myself  from  a  dream,  or  am  I  now  awake? 
The  clock  in  the  hall  strikes  two.  Yes,  I  heard 
that  same  clock  strike  eleven  and  but  a  few  moments 
since,  and  then  I  was  sitting  up  with  the  corpse. 
Am  I  still  here? 

"  In  every  twenty-four  hours  there  is  one  period 
when  human  vitality  reaches  its  lowest  point.  It  is 
the  daily  ebb  in  the  tide  of  life.  Just  as  the  dividing 
line  between  calendar  days  is  placed  in  an  isolated 
part  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  where  it  will  cause  the 
least  confusion  of  dates,  so  the  guardian  of  our  des- 
tiny has  fixed  the  ebb  of  vitality  to  occur  during  our 
night's  sleep.  In  your  bedside  petition  ask  that 
you  may  be  guided  past  the  hour  of  two  a.  m.  If 
the  sick  person  survives  this  hour,  there  is  hope  until 
the  same  time  the  following  night. 

"  To  awaken  at  this  hour  means  to  find  your  sys- 
tem absolutely  relaxed.  Your  heart  action  is  tak- 
ing its  opportunity  to  rest,  and  in  consequence  the 
sluggish  circulation  of  your  blood  brings  about  an 
anaemic  condition  of  the  brain.  You  are  neither  sane 
nor  insane.  You  have  your  thoughts,  but  no  con- 
trol over  them.  The  horrors  of  nightmare  torture 
you,  though  awake.  Then  it  is  you  would  again  be 
a  child,  that  you  could  put  your  head  on  your 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  25 

mother's  breast,  and  sob  out  the  agonizing  terror. 
In  all  the  gamut  of  human  suffering  there  is  noth- 
ing that  compares  with  the  condition  of  one  when  he 
realizes  his  faculties  are  wandering  beyond  reach; 
when  one  lobe  of  the  brain  is  under  control,  and  en- 
deavors to  soothe,  while  the  other  is  demoniacal,  and 
he  must  chase  through  dark  cold  shadows,  and  see 
phantoms  of  horror  in  their  leaps  and  bounds  to 
overtake  him. 

"  My  fire  and  lamp  had  burned  out,  my  legs  were 
stiff  from  my  sitting  position,  and  cold  air  was 
rushing  down  the  chimney.  I  knew  the  first  thing 
to  do  was  to  regain  complete  control  of  myself,  then 
re-make  my  fire  and  dispel  the  gloom.  I  saw  the 
communicating  door  was  partly  open,  just  as  I  had 
left  it,  and  could  hear  the  deep  breathing  of  the  two 
tired  sisters  in  the  room  above. 

"  If  you  must  awaken  yourself  at  this  hour,  do  it 
gradually,  not  with  a  single  spasmodic  jerk.  After 
the  first  sensation  of  consciousness  permit  yourself 
to  lapse  into  semi-consciousness  for  a  while,  then 
rouse  and  relapse,  repeating  this  as  long  as  neces- 
sary. After  each  lapse  you  will  feel  better. 

"  I  had  only  passed  out  of  the  second  lapse,  when 
a  sound  was  recorded  on  the  tympanum  of  my  ear. 
I  heard  three  taps  unmistakably  clear  and  distinct. 
There  was  no  question  as  to  whence  they  came. 
Nothing  ever  made  except  a  coffin  could  resound  like 
that — hollow,  and  that  awful  muffled  effect! 

"  The  first  tap  was  terrifyingly  distinct,  the  sec- 
ond but  moderately  so,  and  the  third  so  soft  it  would 


26  TAMAM 

not  have  been  noticed  except  for  the  warning  by  the 
preceding  ones.  Of  course  there  was  cold  perspira- 
tion on  my  forehead,  and  the  beating  of  my  heart 
was  such  that  the  old  spring-bottom  chair  in  which 
I  was  sitting  fairly  creaked  with  the  vibration. 
Must  I  rush  out  of  the  house  as  I  did  the  night  of 
the  '  Sleeping  Beauty '  exhibition  ?  No,  I  had 
schooled  myself  all  through  life  for  just  this  emer- 
gency. This  time  I  intended  to  stand  my  ground. 
There  should  be  no  more  guffaws  from  any  long, 
lean,  freckle-faced  boy. 

"  I  was  blessed  with  a  mind  for  psychological  in- 
vestigations, yet  did  not  move  from  my  seat.  My 
first  impulse  had  become  dissipated  into  an  intense 
curiosity  to  know  who  would  play  such  a  trick  at 
such  a  time;  but  even  then  I  did  not  move  my  head 
or  cast  my  eyes  upward,  though  the  stars  would  have 
afforded  ample  light  to  examine  the  room.  Why 
should  I  rush  into  the  presence  of  the  old  lady's  last 
sleep  as  though  I  were  storming  a  fort?  I  could 
just  as  well  go  in  later.  I  knew  I  had  never  been 
superstitious  or  believed  in  spirit  rappings.  Was  I 
sure  of  my  position  now?  Certainly,  I  would  analyze 
the  occurrence  from  where  I  sat,  even  before  I  had 
made  myself  warm.  Had  I  really  heard  such  rap- 
pings?  I  was  sure  of  that.  I  could  almost  hear 
the  echoes  lingering  in  the  house. 

"  The  three  raps  had  occurred  at  regular  inter- 
vals, in  just  about  the  time  we  take  to  say,  '  one- two- 
three,'  before  the  final  '  go  '  in  a  foot-race. 

"  As  I  grew  calmer  my  ingenuity  began  to  work. 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  27 

Would  I  win  in  my  mental  struggle,  or  would  the 
shivering  mystery  regain  control  of  me? 

"  Cold  draughts  were  coming  through  the  partly 
open  door,  for  the  parlor  fire  must  have  burned  out 
some  time  before  mine. 

"  I  inhaled  several  deep  breaths  of  the  fresh  air 
that  it  might  make  my  brain  more  active.  I  was 
repaid  for  my  effort,  for  the  faint  dawn  of  an  ex- 
planation seemed  drifting  into  view.  It  came  nearer 
and  I  grasped  it  with  all  my  soul.  I  would  rescue 
myself  from  the  perils  of  superstition.  I  almost 
leaped  from  my  chair  with  enthusiasm,  and  im- 
mediately would  prove  the  analysis  correct  by  repro- 
ducing the  exact  sound  on  that  same  coffin,  and  dur- 
ing that  very  minute.  No,  I  would  light  the  extra 
lamp  which  had  been  left  for  me,  then  rekindle  the 
fire.  I  felt  that  I  would  like  to  prolong  the  delight- 
ful sensation  caused  by  the  happy  culmination  of  my 
reasoning,  just  as  a  cat  postpones  the  killing  of 
her  prey. 

"  The  rapping  was  not  the  trick  of  any  person, 
but  far  beyond  that  of  human  ingenuity.  Had  I 
made  a  psychological  study  involving  every  principle 
in  the  law  of  chance,  I  would  not  have  found  so 
clever  a  solution  as  had  unfolded  with  but  a  few 
moments'  effort  on  my  part.  Did  I  feel  proud?  I 
guess  I  did.  I  strutted  around  like  the  last  boy  in 
line  when  he  has  turned  down  the  whole  spelling- 
class. 

"  After  my  fire  began  to  burn,  I  decided  to  muse 
a  little  longer.  No  doubt  as  to  the  possibility  of 


28  TAMAM 

the  explanation  being  correct  had  existed  in  my 
mind.  I  knew  myself  on  this  point.  The  explana- 
tion was  so  simple,  yet  so  complex.  I  determined  to 
go  through  the  sensation  again,  magnifying  it,  be- 
cause I  intended  to  tell  the  story ;  and  since  it  was  all 
mine,  why  not  make  it  a  good  one.  I  went  over  the 
premise  to  touch  the  story  up  and  make  it  more 
vivid.  There  I  was,  the  only  man  within  two  miles, 
in  a  strange  old  house,  sitting  up  with  the  corpse  of 
a  queer  old  woman,  and  I  had  awakened  from  an  un- 
intentional sleep  in  a  sitting  position,  at  the  dead 
hour  of  night,  to  find  neither  fire  nor  lamp  burning. 
In  the  oppressive  stillness,  while  I  am  benumbed  with 
cold,  and  mentally  struggling  to  overcome  the  sur- 
rounding gloom,  I  hear  rappings  on  the  coffin. 

"  There  was  no  room  for  elaboration,  the  plain 
cold  facts  made  the  climax.  Could  I  then  elaborate 
my  explanation,  making  it  appear  more  miraculous? 
No ;  at  the  first  stroke  I  had  hit  the  nail  squarely  on 
the  head. 

"  Opening  wide  the  communicating  door,  the  par- 
lor became  abundantly  lighted,  and  I  went  in.  How 
quiet  and  subdued  everything  was !  I  knew  the  old 
lady  was  peacefully  resting,  though  I  had  not  yet 
looked  at  her.  Glimmers  of  light  from  my  rekindled 
fire  reflected  from  the  ebony  wood,  like  the  rise  and 
fall  of  a  breast  in  restful  sleep.  The  heavy  metal 
handles  hung  limp,  as  the  arms  of  a  man  who  is 
sleeping  on  his  back  on  a  narrow  couch. 

"  I  went  over,  looked  down  into  the  dead  woman's 
face,  and  with  a  feeling  akin  to  that  of  reverential 


29 

affection,  raised  a  handle  by  means  of  my  extended 
forefinger,  toyed  with  it  an  instant,  dropped  it,  then 
listened  to  the  tap-tap-tap. 

"  The  spirit  of  the  old  woman,  somewhere  in 
eternity  beyond,  must  have  shrieked  with  laughter, 
like  a  little  child  who  creeps  up  behind  your  chair  to 
tickle  your  ear  with  a  straw.  At  first  you  merely, 
brush  away  the  fly,  then  do  so  several  times  in  a 
very  demonstrative  way,  each  time  increasing  the 
pretended  aggravation.  For  the  sake  of  the  child 
we  continue  the  illusion.  If  you  wait  too  long  the 
little  one  will  explode  with  a  burst  of  muffled  sounds. 
So  before  that  point  is  reached  you  turn,  discover 
the  culprit  and  fail  to  catch  him,  while  he  splits  the 
ear  with  his  shrieks  of  laughter.  Just  such  a  shriek 
the  old  woman's  spirit  must  have  given." 

Uncle  Jesse  used  to  pause  here.  He  would  cough, 
and  say  he  had  talked  himself  hoarse  and  must  get 
a  drink  of  water,  then  disappear  until  breakfast  next 
morning. 

If  you  have  skilfully  performed  a  bit  of  leger- 
demain, after  which  the  person  whom  you  have 
mystified  teases  you  to  do  it  again,  whereupon  he  dis- 
covers the  secret,  you  know  how  contemptuously  he 
says  "  pshaw !  " 

Uncle  Jesse  dreaded  ending  his  story.  He  had 
never  told  it  exactly  alike  any  two  times,  though  al- 
ways rigidly  adhered  to  the  actual  framework.  He 
would  watch  his  new  listener  for  any  signs  of  an 
enviously  critical  tendency,  or  the  kind  of  bravado 


30  TAMAM 

bearing  which,  while  indicating  a  recognition  that 
the  story  was  interesting,  showed  also  a  determina- 
tion to  do,  or  die,  in  the  attempt  to  tell  a  better 
one.  If  he  discovered  such  signs  in  a  listener's  face 
he  would  branch  off  at  various  opportune  places,  and 
wander  so  far,  as  it  were,  that  sometimes  we  children 
could  hardly  keep  awake.  But  what  a  commotion 
there  was  when  he  had  gone  to  get  his  drink!  We 
fairly  screamed  in  our  efforts  to  be  the  first  to  ex- 
plain to  the  confused  auditor  how  one  handle  worked 
stiffly  and  had  remained  in  its  extended  position  after 
the  coffin  had  been  placed  on  the  rests,  until  the 
room  became  cold  and  the  metal  contracted,  letting 
the  handle  swing  down  against  the  side,  after  which 
it  rebounded  two  times. 

The  negroes  in  the  neighborhood  knew  Uncle 
Jesse's  story  and  religiously  accepted  it;  that  is, 
they  accepted  all  but  the  explanation.  One  of  them 
voiced  the  darky  sentiment  when  she  said,  "  Marse 
Jess  put  on  'bout  that  han'le  business,  'cause  he 
didn't  want  to  'rouse  no  'spicions." 

So  the  Smallwood  graveyard  was  "  marked  " ;  for 
having  no  proof  to  the  contrary,  every  negro  be- 
lieved the  old  woman  would  rap  again  if  any  one 
approached. 

It  was  the  very  next  summer  that  old  Jim  put 
some  poison  on  a  dead  hen  to  kill  a  skunk.  Instead 
of  a  skunk,  the  poison  killed  a  favorite  fox-hound 
belonging  to  Major  Corbin,  a  neighbor.  When  told 
of  it,  the  Major  had  jokingly  remarked,  "  Jim  should 
have  eaten  the  hen  instead  of  letting  the  dog  have 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  31 

it."  Such  a  message  had  gotten  to  Jim,  as  coming 
from  the  Major,  and  probably  in  a  distorted  form, 
as  the  remark  apparently  implied  a  double  mean- 
ing. 

There  was  a  story  in  the  neighborhood  how  years 
ago  a  man  had  been  killed  because  of  some  trouble 
over  a  sheep-killing  dog.  Old  Jim  knew  this  story, 
and  the  more  he  thought  of  that  message  the  more 
firmly  he  believed  the  Major  intended  to  kill  him. 
So  finally  the  poor  old  innocent,  friendless  negro 
disappeared. 

After  Jim  left  them  the  Smallwood  sisters  sold  the 
old  place  to  a  Western  tobacco-grower  and  went 
into  a  convent.  The  tobacco-grower  did  not  know 
the  history  of  the  place,  there  being  no  one  to  tell 
him,  because  this  class  of  men  found  no  associates 
in  central  Kentucky.  They  were  generally  known 
as  "  my  tobacco-grower  "  by  the  landowner  whose 
farm  they  worked  "  on  the  shares."  The  negroes 
referred  to  them  as  "  them  poor  white  trash,"  and 
avoided  them  as  they  would  a  serpent. 

The  tobacco-grower  got  the  Smallwood  farm  very 
cheap,  else  he  could  not  have  bought  it  at  all.  It 
has  been  said  there  were  but  two  spots  on  the  place 
where  no  tobacco  was  grown.  One  was  the  ground 
on  which  the  house  stood,  the  other  was  the  grave- 
yard. 

After  a  while  the  tobacco-grower  got  the  owner 
of  one  of  the  large  adjoining  farms  to  let  him  cul- 
tivate a  little  "  strip  "  on  the  shares.  Each  year 
the  size  of  the  strip  increased.  Each  year  the  outer 


32  TAMAM 

fences  of  the  large  farm  were  brought  in  a  little  to- 
ward the  great  house.  Now  the  tobacco-grower 
owns  that  farm. 

Oh !  bitter  fate,  that  the  scions  of  a  boasted  ances- 
try must  give  way  before  their  scullions ! 

We  had  better  go  to  the  graveyard  even  more 
frequently  than  we  do,  for  the  old  master  rests  there 
after  a  successful  journey  through  life.  He  con- 
quered difficulties,  and  made  a  great  home  for  his 
posterity. 

When  the  tobacco-grower  suggests  you  let  him 
put  in  a  little  "  strip  "  on  the  shares,  go  to  the  grave- 
yard and  think — think  before  you  move  the  fences. 

Sometimes  the  scions  outgrow  the  old  place. 
Even  with  all  its  ancestral  tendrils  the  noble  son 
spreads  beyond  its  bounds.  He  leaves  the  great 
farm  in  charge  of  the  "  real  estate  agent,"  and  be- 
comes "  one  of  the  prominent  men  "  in  a  great  city. 

Does  the  scion  forsake  his  family  graveyard,  leav- 
ing his  ancestral  dead  behind?  Never;  their  remains 
are  exhumed  and  deposited  in  the  mausoleum  he 
builds  for  himself  in  his  adopted  city.  And  be  it 
to  the  honor  of  his  successors,  though  it  may  be 
founded  on  superstition  rather  than  respect,  none 
of  these  dismantled  graveyards  are  ever  further  dis- 
turbed. 

Sometimes,  with  all  their  sacred  memories  and 
clusters  of  hallowed  charms,  these  graveyards  finally 
become  the  resting-place  of  but  a  single  and  obscure 
occupant.  Such  an  occupant  may  have  been  only  a 


"FOREST    RETREAT"  33 

distant  acquaintance,  or  perchance  a  stranger.  The 
more  vague  his  history,  the  more  certain  was  he  to 
remain  in  final  possession. 


The  old  Kentucky  homes  of  much  pretension  were 
glorious  houses  with  many  rooms,  for  in  that  time 
people  entertained  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word. 
A  party  of  young  folks  on  horseback  might  come  by 
at  any  time,  spend  several  days,  get  the  young  people 
in  the  family,  and  take  them  on  to  the  next  stopping- 
place,  only  to  repeat  the  performance.  One  day,  a 
house  full;  next  day,  an  exodus. 

Two  important  formalities  of  to-day  were  un- 
known— an  invitation  to  visit,  or  notice  of  an  in- 
tended visit.  You  went  if  you  felt  like  going,  be- 
cause you  knew  you  were  always  welcome. 

When  old  Captain  Shelton,  the  master  of  "  Forest 
Retreat,"  saw  an  unknown  man  ride  up  to  his  porch 
he  was  neither  surprised  nor  disappointed. 

"  Captain  Shelton,  I  am  Major  E.  C.  Nicholson," 
the  stranger  announced,  as  he  dismounted  and 
hitched  his  horse. 

The  Captain  had  no  idea  under  the  sun  who  Maj  or 
Nicholson  was,  but  he  gracefully  concealed  the  fact, 
and  the  two  old  gentlemen  sat  down  in  the  cool  on 
the  great  porch. 

There  is  a  little  secret  test  you  may  make  use  of 
in  case  of  emergency — get  a  glimpse  of  the  stran- 
ger's fingernails. 


34  TAMAM 

The  Major's  fingernails  passed  muster,  for  in  a 
short  while  the  two  were  refreshing  themselves  with 
the  inevitable  mint-julep. 

The  Major  had  been  in  the  war  of  1812,  he  and 
the  Captain  having  been  in  the  same  fight  at  the 
"  River  Raisin  Massacre."  So  there  was  no  ques- 
tion as  to  his  claim.  The  fight  had  been  with  the 
Indians  whom  the  British  had  armed.  The  Indians 
were  victorious,  afterward  making  their  captives 
run  the  gantlet.  At  the  end  of  the  gantlet  was  the 
block-house  in  which  the  prisoners  were  to  stay  when 
they  had  made  the  passage  between  the  double  line 
of  Indians,  armed  with  sabers,  clubs,  tomahawks, 
switches  and  every  conceivable  snare  to  trip  the  run- 
ners. Remarkable  as  it  may  seem,  some  reached  the 
block-house. 

After  the  gantlet  race  the  unsatiated  Indians  held 
a  council  and  decided  on  the  killing  of  more  captives. 

It  is  well  known  an  Indian  never  spares  a  red- 
headed man,  and  the  captives  in  the  block-house  were 
busy  in  their  efforts  to  conceal  the  few  red  heads 
that  were  there,  among  which  was  the  Major's. 

In  the  midst  of  this  performance  a  cloud  of  dust 
attracted  the  attention  of  all.  The  terrified  cap- 
tives, peeping  between  the  logs  of  the  house,  saw 
emerge  from  the  cloud  an  Indian  in  furious  gallop 
on  a  harnessed  horse.  What  it  meant  they  did  not 
know,  but  the  Indians  did,  for  they  began  sneaking 
away  like  sheep-killing  dogs.  Afterward  the  cap- 
tives learned  it  was  the  great  Tecumseh,  who,  upon 
hearing  of  the  battle,  had  mounted  a  cannon  horse, 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  35 

hastening  to  prevent  the  massacre  which  he  knew 
was  sure  to  follow. 

It  made  no  difference  if  the  old  gentlemen  could 
not  recall  each  other,  the  Captain  and  the  Major 
having  been,  in  reality,  privates ;  no  fraud,  however 
well  couched,  could  have  stood  the  series  of  leading 
questions  these  incidents  recalled,  as  the  two  old  men 
rehearsed  the  awful  experience. 

The  Major's  horse  was  put  in  the  stable. 

"  Will  you  go  to  the  sale?  "  asked  the  Captain  on 
the  third  morning  of  the  Major's  visit. 

The  Major's  response  was  to  take  his  seat  in  the 
chaise  with  the  Captain. 

A  sale  on  a  large  Kentucky  farm  meant  more  than 
the  mere  selling  out  of  implements,  stock  and  crops, 
preparatory  to  the  settling  of  an  estate.  It  was  a 
decided  social  function,  with  its  barbecue  and  gen- 
eral handshaking. 

"  Colonel ,  this  is  Major  Nicholson,"  said  the 

Captain. 

"  How-de-do,  Major,"  the  Colonel  heartily  re- 
sponded as  they  shook  hands ;  "  where  is  your 
home?  " 

The  Captain  became  all  attention.  He  too  would 
like  to  know.  The  Major  had  not  volunteered  this 
information,  and,  as  the  host,  he  could  not  ask. 

"  I  live  at  Captain  Shelton's,"  the  Major  replied 
with  gentle  dignity. 

Again  the  Captain  had  to  conceal  his  ignorance 
of  so  important  a  fact. 

The  Major  proved  an  easy  guest.     He  was  always 


36  TAMAM 

ready  to  listen,  if  the  Captain  felt  loquacious,  though 
the  war  was  the  only  subject  where  he  supplied  more 
than  a  nod  of  approval.  He  possessed  the  happy 
faculty  of  knowing  when  and  how  to  leave  the  fam- 
ily group.  Visitors  were  coming  and  going  all  the 
time  and  the  family  table  was  large,  so  the  Major's 
seat  at  the  coffee-pot  corner  made  no  material  change 
in  anything,  or  anybody's  plans.  In  the  course  of 
the  years  which  followed  the  sale,  the  only  strange 
thing  would  have  been  the  Major's  absence.  He 
was  the  acme  of  neatness,  punctuality  and  propriety. 

When  the  Captain  discovered  the  initials  "  E.  C. 
N.,"  freshly  cut  in  one  of  the  great  aspen  trees  in 
the  graveyard,  he  knew  what  it  meant,  and  told  the 
Major  he  could  be  buried  there.  And  long  ago 
the  roots  of  that  same  old  aspen  have  sapped  the 
phosphate  from  the  Major's  decomposed  bones,  and 
translocated  it  to  form  the  leaves  that  shiver. 

No  mark  other  than  the  tree  upon  which  he  carved 
his  initials  has  served  to  indicate  the  Major's  grave. 
The  Captain  felt  the  simple  modest  nature  would  not 
care  to  have  his  memory  perpetuated  in  stone,  but 
prefer  to  pass  from  their  midst  into  oblivion,  from 
whence  he  had  come. 

If  you  would  have  for  yourself  a  monument  more 
magnificently  intricate  in  lines  than  has  ever  been 
carved  from  stone,  one  that  is  stateliness  and 
grandeur  in  the  extreme,  that  lifts  you  upward  as 
does  a  figure  symbolical  in  its  offering  to  the  mighty 
sweep  of  blue  canopy  above,  one  on  which  no  lichens 
obscure  the  legend,  but  passers-by  can  always  read 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  37 

the  emblem  of  tranquil  rest ;  if  your  life  has  been 
such  that  your  deeds  are  worthy  of  commemoration 
in  a  way  beauteous  beyond  compare,  then  have  your 
body  buried  at  the  foot  of  a  stately  tree.  Its 
roots,  in  an  affectionate  embrace,  will  lift  you  up 
to  form  its  flower,  and  in  the  waft  of  its  perfume  you 
breathe  again. 

The  Buddhists'  respect  for  animals  is  due  to  their 
belief  that  the  souls  of  their  ancestors  may  have 
transmigrated  into  animals. 

When  you  go  to  the  graveyard,  don't  look  down ; 
look  up  and  receive  a  blessing  beneath  the  arms  of 
your  ancestors  as  the  trees  sway  in  sympathetic  har- 
mony. 


When  the  graveyard  at  an  old  neighboring  place 
owned  by  the  Castletons  was  dismantled,  there  was 
much  excitement,  it  being  the  first  instance  of  the 
kind  in  that  immediate  neighborhood.  Then  again, 
the  Castletons  were  a  great  people,  and  it  made  the 
neighbors  feel  somewhat  as  one  does  when  the  family 
doctor  dies. 

The  scion  of  the  family  had  become  a  "  Colonel, 
U.  S.  A.,"  while  the  ancestors  had  only  been  "  Ken- 
tucky Colonels."  The  "  Colonel,  U.  S.  A.,"  was  prac- 
tically unknown  to  the  neighbors,  having  been  away 
since  entering  West  Point  as  a  youth.  But  the 
"  Kentucky  Colonel "  was  so  intimately  associated 
with  the  great  home  he  had  founded,  that  it  was  con- 
sidered nothing  less  than  a  desecration  when  his  re- 


38  TAMAM 

mains  were  removed.  Indignation  was  expressed, 
even  though  it  was  recalled  that  at  the  time  of  the 
old  Colonel's  death  he  was  only  temporarily  placed 
in  his  own  family  graveyard.  This  was  because  he 
had  died  during  the  excitement  incident  to  the  civil 
war.  His  wife,  feeling  the  possibility  of  a  change 
in  the  old  home,  declared  she  would  never  leave  his 
remains  behind.  It  was  suggested  that  his  grave 
be  walled  up,  so  if  she  should  want  to  have  the  body 
reinterred  the  grave  could  be  opened  by  the  removal 
of  a  layer  of  earth  which  covered  a  stone  slab  that 
rested  on  the  top  of  the  side  walls. 

The  old  lady's  fears  proved  unfounded,  for  a  few 
years  later  she  was  buried  at  his  side,  where  they 
rested  peacefully  within  the  sound  of  the  voices  of 
those  to  whom  they  had  been  dear.  But  their  rest 
was  destined  to  be  broken,  for  the  "  U.  S.  A."  scion 
had  them  all  exhumed  and  the  remains  deposited  in 
his  mausoleum,  with  their  names  in  fresh  gilt  letters, 
on  the  marble  panel  that  closed  their  niche,  as  if  they 
had  just  died. 

What  is  the  use  of  having  a  great  house  if  you 
have  no  ancestral  portraits  to  cover  its  walls  ?  What 
is  the'  use  of  having  a  mausoleum  if  you  have  no 
ancestral  remains  deposited  there? 

So  there  remained  the  old  stone  wall  faithfully 
protecting  the  dismantled  tombstones,  while  the  as- 
pens and  pines  waved  in  exclusive  grandeur.  The 
spot  was  completely  isolated,  every  other  vestige 
of  the  old  home  having  been  erased. 

If  one  is  detected  in  the  avoidance  of  some  act, 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  39 

with  which  a  superstition  is  associated,  he  generally 
declares  that  it  is  the  only  superstition  he  has.  In 
the  same  spirit  people  avoided  the  old  dismantled 
Castleton  graveyard,  even  though  they  avoided  no 
other.  And  perhaps  with  more  excuse,  for  there 
were  many,  including  responsible  people,  who  in- 
sisted they  had  seen  a  dark  object  moving  about  at 
twilight.  If  you  cross-questioned  them  you  found 
they  had  seen  the  object  from  a  distance,  then 
straightway  had  gone  to  the  stone  fence  and  looked 
over,  to  find  nothing  there.  Some  believed  they 
had  seen  it  rise  out  of  the  ground,  while  others 
claimed  to  have  seen  it  disappear  by  re-entering  the 
ground. 

A  group  of  boys  had  at  one  time  concealed  them- 
selves just  outside  the  walls  of  the  old  place  to  await 
the  coming  twilight  and  the  "  hant,"  as  the  object 
was  known.  They  claimed  to  have  heard  a  noise 
resembling  the  "swish  of  straw,"  whereupon  their 
courage  gave  place  to  unceremonious  flight. 

So  the  neighborhood  was  divided  in  opinion,  in 
consequence  of  which  all  stayed  away ;  one  side  be- 
cause they  believed  there  was  something  there,  the 
other  side  because  they  did  not. 

One  night  Major  Corbin  had  some  friends  out 
from  town  for  a  fox-hunt.  The  night  was  dry, 
which  made  trailing  difficult.  The  dogs  seemed  dis- 
couraged and  the  sport  was  about  to  lag,  when  an 
old  mongrel  hound,  that  had  joined  the  pack  without 
invitation,  began  a  glorious  and  continued  bellow- 
ing. The  dog  had  struck  a  "  coon  "  trail,  and  every 


40  TAMAM 

one  of  the  high-bred  fox-hounds  joined  in  the  chorus 
and  was  going  it  full  tilt. 

By  some  remarkable  instinct  the  experienced 
hunter  can  tell  what  kind  of  a  trail  his  dogs  are  fol- 
lowing. If  it  is  a  fox  trail  the  yelps  seem  to  be 
short  and  on  a  high  key,  as  if  the  dog  knows  he  must 
save  his  wind  for  a  long  swift  chase.  If  it  is  a 
"  coon  "  trail,  they  seem  to  enjoy  making  as  much 
noise  as  possible,  as  if  they  know  the  coon  will  take 
to  the  nearest  tree. 

"  Let  'em  take  it,"  called  the  Major,  for  on  a  fox- 
hunt the  negroes  are  instructed  to  call  the  dogs  off 
"  coon  "  trails. 

"  They  are  heading  for  the  old  Castleton  home- 
site,  and  I  believe  will  tree  him  in  the  graveyard," 
explained  the  Major  to  his  friends. 

Up  the  grassy  slope  went  the  pack,  making  the 
night  ring  with  their  yells,  leaving  behind  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  bits  of  dried  grass,  which  their  claws 
extracted  as  they  clinched  the  turf  in  the  taking  of 
their  wonderful  leaps.  Straight  for  the  graveyard 
they  headed. 

The  negroes,  who  always  accompany  such  hunts, 
began  to  show  unusual  interest.  What  if  those  dogs 
went  to  that  graveyard?  Would  the  Major  follow? 
They  would  watch  developments. 

The  yelping  hounds  sprang,  as  a  bunch,  over  the 
wall,  only  to  change  their  triumphant  yelps  into 
short  sullen  screeches,  and  immediately  leaped  back, 
returning  to  their  master  with  tails  drooping  be- 
tween their  legs,  and  casting  furtive  glances  at  the 
graveyard. 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  41 

The  Major  knew  that  his  dogs  had  seen  something 
unusual  and  distasteful  to  them.  Could  it  be  the 
"  hant  "  ?  Here  was  a  case  of  "  graveyard  fright," 
and  in  dogs ;  which  can  have  no  superstition. 

The  Major  was  in  the  class  who  did  not  believe 
there  was  anything  there,  consequently  he  had 
stayed  away.  Now  he  did  believe  something  was 
there,  would  he  stay  away?  He  carried  in  his  cheek 
a  Federal  Minie  ball;  he  had  faced  his  enemy  in  the 
crucial  test.  His  visitors  knew  nothing  of  the  super- 
stition connected  with  the  place. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said  calmly,  "  we  will  approach 
the  place  on  the  four  sides." 

The  courage  of  the  negroes  was  strengthened  by 
the  stand  so  promptly  taken,  and  they  followed  at 
a  most  respectful  distance. 

"  What  a  strange  spot,"  remarked  one  of  the 
visitors,  as  the  party  rested  on  the  four  walls  of  the 
yard,  surveying  the  place. 

No  doubt  they  would  have  heard  a  noise  resem- 
bling the  "  swish  of  straw,"  had  they  come  for  that 
purpose. 

The  old  tombstones  were  ruthlessly  scattered. 
Some  in  piles  as  if  they  had  assembled  to  hold  either 
indignation  or  consolation  meetings  over  the  loss  of 
their  precious  charges.  Others  seemed  to  have  gone 
stark  mad  and  thrown  themselves  on  their  backs,  and 
lay  staring  at  the  heavens  as  if  in  mute  appeal  to 
those  spirits  whose  earthly  abode  had  for  a  while 
been  left  in  their  keeping.  A  white  dove  that  had 
long  stood  with  outstretched  wings  in  representation 
of  the  flight  of  a  soul,  though  now  wingless,  was  still 


42  TAMAM 

pathetically  beautiful  in  its  watch  over  a  hole  in  the 
ground. 

Never  again  would  the  lichens  be  scratched  out  of 
grooves  of  the  letters  with  a  nail,  so  the  legend 
could  be  laboriously  read. 

Moonlight  escaped  through  the  tree  tops  as  the 
branches  swayed  in  an  occasional  breeze,  momentarily 
lighting  up  spots,  so  that,  with  patience,  they  could 
see  over  the  entire  place. 

The  pine  trees  were  moaning  with  spasmodic 
wails,  while  the  aspen  trees  trembled  with  a  succes- 
sion of  shivers.  When  there  is  a  wind  there  are  wails 
and  shivers,  while  in  a  dead  calm  there  is  the  ceaseless 
moan  and  tremble.  But  for  this  they  might  have 
heard  the  noise  resembling  the  "  swish  of  straw." 

"  I  wonder  if  any  one  is  still  buried  here?  "  asked 
a  visitor. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  a  companion,  "  let  us  ask. 
Major  Corbin,"  he  called,  "  is  there  any  one  here 
now?" 

The  Major  interpreted  the  question  as  having  ref- 
erence to  what  had  frightened  his  dogs.  "  I  don't 
know,"  he  replied,  jumping  down  into  the  yard,  "  I 
will  look " 

The  Major's  sentence  was  interrupted  by  a  sound 
that  chilled  to  the  marrow.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  very  ground  beneath  him,  and  was  followed 
by  something  resembling  suppressed  guttural  sounds 
and  convulsive  outbursts,  as  if  from  a  person  of  pow- 
erful strength  terrified  in  the  agonizing  throes  of 
death. 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  43 

The  negroes  were  in  precipitate  flight,  and  the 
visitors  also  retired,  but  in  decorum. 

The  Major  instinctively  felt  the  Minie  ball  wince 
in  his  cheek  as  he  hastily  turned  toward  the  fence. 

After  a  moment  for  composure,  the  party,  as  if 
with  one  thought,  returned  to  the  walls.  With  that 
reserve  courage,  which  in  reaction  follows  fright, 
they  entered  the  yard.  As  they  stood  in  silence,  not 
a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  the  moan  of  the  pines 
and  the  tremble  of  the  aspens.  Even  the  spots  of 
light  had  vanished,  for  the  moon  was  nearing  the 
western  horizon. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Major, — and  the  Minie 
ball  must  have  twitched, — "  if  you  can  find  your  way 
to  the  house  without  my  assistance,  I  shall  remain 
here  until  daylight." 

But  they  preferred  to  stay  with  him.  Of  course 
they  would.  Should  they  let  him  take  all  the  glory 
of  such  a  vigil? 

The  hours  remaining  before  dawn  were  easily 
passed,  the  excitement  having  served  the  purpose  of 
strong  coffee,  for  all  wanted  to  talk.  They  let  the 
dawn  more  than  break  before  arising  from  their  im- 
provised bench  of  tombstones. 

By  the  first  faint  streaks  of  light  each  one,  no 
doubt,  had,  from  where  he  sat,  silently  examined  the 
surroundings,  and  felt  even  more  strongly  determined 
to  conquer  the  mystery.  Perhaps  they  lingered 
rather  than  dispel  the  heroic  illusion,  for  they  were 
enjoying  the  experience,  especially  since  they  had 
seen  enough  to  see  nothing.  There  were  plenty  of 


44  TAMAM 

foot-prints  and  down-trodden  weeds  and  grass,  but 
that  meant  nothing,  for  they  had  tramped  over  the 
place  during  the  night. 

Stone  fences,  as  built  in  Kentucky,  are  generally 
finished  by  placing  the  top  rows  of  stones  on  end, 
selecting  those  with  ragged  edges,  so  that  if  an  ani- 
mal reaches  over  with  its  head,  as  it  does  prepara- 
tory to  a  jump,  the  sharp  points  of  the  stones  force 
it  back.  When  one  wishes  to  climb  over  such  a  fence 
the  natural  impulse  is  to  push  off  some  of  these  edge- 
wise stones. 

A  disturbed  place  in  the  graveyard  fence  caught 
the  Major's  eye  and  aroused  his  suspicion.  Upon 
examination  he  noticed  the  faint  outline  of  a  path 
which  seemed  to  lead  from  that 'place  in  the  fence 
to  the  far  left-hand  corner  of  the  yard.  Yes,  it 
led  to  the  empty  grave  of  the  old  "  Kentucky  Colo- 
nel," and  the  very  corner  over  which  he  had  climbed 
when  he  had  first  entered  the  graveyard  during  the 
night.  Keeping  this  clue  to  himself,  he  evasively 
went  to  the  place. 

Did  he  pause  to  toy  with  the  handle  of  the  coffin  ? 
No,  that  is  done  only  in  certainty — here  was  doubt. 

He  hastened  to  remove  some  brush  concealing  an 
old  door  which  was  resting  on  the  side  walls  of  the 
pit,  apparently  to  afford  shelter.  Lifting  the  door, 
the  pit  was  seen  to  contain  considerable  straw,  some 
of  which  had  been  heaped  in  one  corner,  probably  to 
conceal  some  object.  This  straw  he  pushed  aside 
with  a  forked  stick,  and  there,  crouched  in  the 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  45 

stillness  of  death,  a  terrified  glassy  stare  in  the  eyes, 
the  massive,  bushy  head  thrown  back,  the  mouth  wide 
open,  causing  the  lower  jaw  to  force  a  heavy  growth 
of  disheveled  kinky  hair  against  the  chest,  was  all 
that  was  mortal  of  old  Jim  Arterpea,  a  friendless 
fugitive  from  an  innocent  jest. 

***** 

Words  spoken  in  jest  sometimes  pierce  like  the 
stiletto,  which  makes  a  wound  too  small  to  let  the 
blood  flow  out,  but  causes  an  internal  bleeding  which 
suffocates  the  victim. 

The  ignorant  and  superstitious  many  times  har- 
bor in  silent  suffering  a  firm  belief  in  the  infallibility 
of  an  idle  jest  which  we  have  thoughtlessly  flung  at 
them,  as  does  a  boy  cast  stones  at  harmless  animals. 

We  who  hold  in  keeping  the  higher  degrees  of 
intellect  prostitute  our  trust  when  we  make  light  of 
the  ignorance  displayed  by  those  who  have  not  been 
so  blest. 

***** 

As  innocent  as  was  Major  Corbin's  remark  about 
the  poisoning  of  his  dog,  after  old  Jim's  death,  his 
manner  became  changed  to  that  of  marked  sadness. 

What  days  the  friendless  old  negro  must  have 
spent  in  hiding  from  his  imagined  foe,  who  in  reality 
would  have  been  as  responsive  to  his  call  for  help  as 
any  man  living.  The  terror  of  those  last  moments, 
when  the  poor  old  creature  had  heard  the  Major's 
name  called,  then  heard  his  voice  in  response  and  his 
jumping  down  so  near  the  very  spot  of  concealment 


46  TAMAM 

— all  this  had  snapped  the  cords  which  bound  his 
soul  to  its  humble  abode. 

However,  Major  Corbin  did  the  handsome  thing, 
for  he  arranged  with  the  owner  of  the  estate  to  have 
Jim's  body  buried  in  the  grave  where  he  had  lived 
the  last  bitter  weeks  of  his  pitiful  life.  And  there 
he  rests,  alone,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  spots 
in  the  blue-grass  pastures  of  Kentucky.  In  a  place 
which  was  selected  as  the  sacred  receptacle  for  the 
mortal  remains  of  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  of 
families,  an  unknown  captive,  bound  in  the  shackles 
of  tyranny  and  superstition,  becomes  the  sole  occu- 
pant. 

What  is  the  nature  of  destiny?  Are  we  to  find 
that  the  "  tobacco-grower  "  will  trim  a  little  closer 
each  year,  until  finally  we  must  remove  our  dear  ones 
from  "  Forest  Retreat,"  and  leave  Major  Nichol- 
son, the  homeless  wanderer  who  came  to  us  out  of  the 
great  unknown,  in  solitary  possession  of  our  sacred 
spot?  Was  this  the  purpose  of  the  old  Major's 
mission  to  us? 

Graveyard,  if  such  is  one  of  the  secrets  you  hold 
in  store,  conceal  it  from  us.  We  would  not  know 
all.  We  still  go  to  you  in  the  exuberance  of  youth, 
even  though  you  harbor  the  secret  ghost  that  has 
been  seen  by  our  ancestors,  and  by  some  of  us ;  that 
ghost  whose  memory,  when  one  has  passed  through 
its  visible  presence,  he  conceals  in  the  most  secret 
archives  of  his  heart.  To  see  this  ghost  is  to  break 
the  spell  of  your  charm.  Curiosity  has  never 
tempted  one  to  inquire  if  it  appeared  in  the  same 


"FOREST    RETREAT"  47 

form  any  two  times.  When  one  has  seen  it,  an  im- 
print is  left  upon  the  countenance  and  there  is  a 
faltering  in  the  foot-steps.  How  tenderly  we  would 
sympathize  and  calm  the  throbbing  heart,  if  we  only 
dared ! 

If  you  are  wise  you  will  not  waken  the  somnam- 
bulist, but  let  him  return  to  his  bed  and  resume  nor- 
mal sleep.  Neither  will  you  approach  him  who  has 
just  seen  the  ghost  of  "  Forest  Retreat."  Yearn  as 
you  may  to  offer  him  comfort,  you  must  let  him 
seek  solitude  and  resume  his  normal  awakening.  Our 
ghost  is  a  secret  whose  existence  is  known  only  to 
those  who  have  seen  it ;  and  they  can  never  warn 
others. 

Oh !  graveyard,  would  that  we  could  betray  you  by 
the  expression  of  some  slight  emotion,  when  we  see  the 
victims  at  your  very  portals,  rather  than  slink  away 
as  we  must ! 


There  was  a  posthumous  daughter  of  the  Confed- 
erate officer  who  had  passed  the  care-free  hours  of 
childhood  and  youth.  As  an  infant  she  had  been 
carried  to  the  graveyard,  as  a  child  she  had  carried 
her  own  dolls  there  to  play  "  keep  house,"  and  when 
in  the  bloom  of  young  womanhood,  still  she  went. 
And  such  a  bloom !  It  is  said  her  combination  of 
raven-black  hair  and  blue  eyes  was  never  equaled. 
Her  hair  was  that  kind  of  a  mass  of  ringlets,  wavers 
and  whirls  that  brings  over  you  an  almost  irresistible 
impulse  to  play  your  fingers  through  it. 


48  TAMAM 

Physical  beauty  exists  where  there  is  a  combina- 
tion of  some  two  or  more  of  the  elements  of  beauty. 
The  foremost  of  these  combinations  is  hair  and  eyes. 
Then  comes  eyes  and  mouth,  mouth  and  neck,  neck 
and  arms  and  so  on ;  the  one  element  enhancing  the 
other. 

Every  person  has  a  distinctive  characteristic  by 
which  he  or  she  is  classified  in  our  memory.  This 
characteristic  may  be  in  the  appearance,  or  manner, 
or  both,  but  at  first  contact  it  is  revealed.  We  may 
have  to  think  just  where  it  belongs,  but  the  longer 
we  think  the  more  we  exclaim,  inwardly,  when  we 
have  found  its  class.  So  in  feminine  beauty,  we  in- 
voluntarily analyze  to  find  the  elements  which  lend 
the  charm. 

There  is  but  one  of  woman's  long  list  of  beauty 
elements  that  can  stand  alone.  Nature  in  her  charity 
made  this  elastic,  susceptible  of  culture.  A  flexible, 
musical  rhythm  in  enunciation  is  a  charm  as  beautiful 
as  it  is  rare. 

When  the  posthumous  daughter  spoke,  her  words 
emanated  with  the  mellow  sweetness  of  minor  chords 
tuned  to  mezza  timbre.  The  sounds  did  not  appear 
to  come  from  the  throat,  through  the  nose  or  even 
from  the  lips,  but  as  if  reflected  from  the  entire 
face.  And  when  she  laughed  it  was  like  the  warble 
of  a  playful  brook.  More  than  one  heart  had  made 
sacrifice  at  this  altar,  for  be  it  known  she  was  not  al- 
together sincere. 

In  the  twilight  of  a  summer  evening  she  sat  on  a 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  49 

myrtle-covered  mound  in  the  graveyard.  Years  be- 
fore the  mound  had  been  made  by  the  excess  of  dirt 
from  the  graves.  It  was  thickly  grown  over  with 
the  vines,  and  formed  a  rather  inviting  seat.  At  her 
feet  sat  a  young  man. 

"  Let  us  make  wreaths,"  she  suggested  as  she 
picked  the  myrtle  leaves  about  her ;  and  the  aspens 
trembled  and  the  pines  moaned. 

They  worked  for  a  short  time  in  silence,  appar- 
ently concentrating  their  attention  in  the  inception 
of  designs. 

As  she  stopped  to  select  some  extra  long  stems 
she  spoke. 

"  I  think  I  will  ask  you  a  conundrum.  Why  are 
deserters  like  trees  in  the  spring?  " 

He  was  intent  on  his  work,  and  replied  as  if  with- 
out thought,  that  he  did  not  know. 

"  Because  they  leave  of  their  own  accord,"  she 
said,  laughing  while  she  looked  at  him,  and  rolling 
her  head  in  a  chiding  way  so  the  black  hair  was 
wonderfully  effective. 

He  wished  he  had  tried  and  given  the  answer,  so  as 
to  avoid  the  first  thrust.  He  would  try  her,  and 
about  the  same  trees. 

"  Why  is  a  woman,  who  loves  for  ten  years  and 
then  ceases,  like  a  hollow  tree?  " 

She  could  not  guess,  so  he  felt  better  as  he  ex- 
plained about  the  decade  heart. 

As  the  honors  were  equal,  she  suggested  they  con- 
tinue to  ask  about  trees  only,  and  see  how  far  they 
could  go. 


50  TAMAM 

After  a  pause  in  which  the  minds  of  both  were 
evidently  active,  she  was  the  one  to  speak. 

"  Why  is  the  top  of  a  tree  like  the  settlement  of  a 
Western  prairie?  " 

"  That  sounds  easy,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  think. 
There  are  branches,  and  ranches —  Am  I  getting 
warm?  " 

"  Yes,  because  they  go  to  b-ranches,"  she  replied 
without  waiting. 

"  I  would  have  guessed  if  you  had  given  me  time," 
he  said. 

"  That  is  why  I  did  not  do  so,"  she  replied,  affect- 
ing an  air  of  injured  feelings. 

"  Well,  it  is  my  turn,"  he  said,  "  and  I  am  going 
to  get  even  for  that.  Will  you  tell  me  why  a  tree 
with  a  broken  limb  is  like  a  lame  duck?  " 

She  made  him  promise  not  to  tell  until  she  "  gave 
up." 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  "  take  as  much  time  as  you 
want." 

She  hummed  a  bit  with  closed  lips,  indicating  she 
wanted  it  understood  her  mind  was  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

Finally  she  distracted  his  attention  by  pretending 
there  was  an  insect  crawling  on  her  neck.  He  looked 
thoroughly,  and  declared  there  was  nothing,  where- 
upon she  said  it  was  strange  he  could  not  see  a  thing 
when  it  was  as  large  as  she  knew  that  creature  was, 
after  which  remark  she  suggested  they  proceed  with 
the  work  on  the  wreaths. 

"  Hold  here,  while  I  finish  this  plait,"  she  said, 


"FOREST    RETREAT"  51 

sliding  down  the  mound.  Did  she  do  this  involun- 
tarily, or  was  the  spirit  of  the  coquette  awakening? 

At  first  his  fingers  appeared  unsteady,  nervously 
so,  caused  by  the  gliding  of  hers  in  and  out  through 
his  as  she  tied  the  knots,  but  he  was  sorry  when  she 
had  finished. 

Why  could  he  not  ask  her  to  tie  some  places  in 
his  wreath  while  he  held  it  for  her. 

"  Won't  you  help  me?  "  he  asked,  holding  his 
wreath  toward  her. 

A  slight  flush  came  over  his  face  when  he  found 
himself  in  an  imploring  attitude,  with  outstretched 
arms,  looking  into  those  wonderful  eyes  of  blue. 

Yes,  she  would  help  him. 

They  were  using  the  mound  as  a  kind  of  back  rest, 
and  consequently  were  side  by  side.  To  do  the  work 
she  had  to  pass  one  arm  under  his,  reach  over  with 
the  other,  lowering  that  elbow,  until  it,  likewise,  was 
between  his  extended  arms.  The  raven-black  hair 
brushed  his  cheek  as  she  moved  her  head  in  various 
positions  in  the  examination  of  the  wreath.  She 
could  have  heard  the  increased  beating  of  his  heart, 
because  her  head  was  inclined  well  down  toward  his 
breast. 

Would  he  fold  his  arms,  enclosing  his  prey,  like 
a  trap  closing  around  the  victim  it  had  enticed?  He 
was  the  soul  of  honor,  and  hers  was  purely  an  ac- 
cidental position.  There  may  have  been  a  quiver, 
but  his  arms  remained  extended. 

"  If  I  had  a  piece  of  thread  I  could  tie  this  place," 
she  remarked,  as  she  held  two  short  ends. 


52  TAMAM 

"  Will  a  black  silken  thread  do  ?  "  he  asked,  en- 
deavoring to  conceal  that  he  had  a  purpose  in  view ; 
"  if  so,  I  can  get  one  for  you." 

"  Just  the  thing ;  but  don't  let  go  yet,  the  wreath 
will  come  apart,"  she  replied,  wholly  unawares. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  have  to  let  go  to  get  it,"  and  he 
caught  a  few  strands  of  her  hair  in  his  lips. 

There  was  a  toss  of  the  black  ringlets  and  a  burst 
of  her  marvelous  laughter  as  she  affected  indigna- 
tion in  her  wonderful  blue  eyes.  And  the  aspens 
trembled  and  the  pines  moaned. 

"  Now  you  will  have  to  make  your  wreath  by 
your  lone  self,"  she  said,  as  a  kind  of  retaliation  for 
his  wit  having  caught  her  off  guard ;  but  compromis- 
ing, she  extracted  one  of  the  black  silken  threads  and 
repaired  the  wreath. 

He  had  proved  himself  quite  skilful,  for  in  con- 
structing his  wreath  he  had  woven  some  branches 
that  were  in  bloom,  so  it  was  dotted  with  little  blue 
flowers.  He  kept  her  from  seeing  this,  because  it 
was  evident  there  was  a  spirit  of  rivalry  in  the  mak- 
ing of  the  wreaths,  as  well  as  in  their  wit. 

"  Yours  is  the  prettier,"  she  said,  "  let  us  ex- 
change. Besides,  you  ought  not  to  wear  flowers. 
The  olive  wreaths  that  are  given  to  conquerors  never 
have  flowers  in  them." 

She  felt  that  this  display  of  knowledge  was  an  off- 
set to  his  skill,  and  proceeded  to  take  his  wreath 
without  awaiting  his  consent. 

"  No,  no,"  he  protested,  "  that  is  not  the  way 
to  do.  I  will  crown  you  with  mine,  then  you  must 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  53 

crown  me  with  yours,  and  we  will  see  who  can  make 
the  grander  coronation  speech." 

Here  was  a  challenge,  and  the  chances  appeared 
even,  especially  as  he  was  to  go  first.  So  she  ac- 
cepted. 

"  What  shall  the  winner  get  as  a  prize? "  she 
asked,  unable  to  conceal  the  fact  that  she  had  a  bit 
of  repartee  ready  to  let  fly  when  he  paused  for  an 
answer. 

"  Let  the  winner  take  the  loser  for  better  or  worse, 
etc.,"  was  his  quick  response,  and  a  gleam  of  satis- 
faction shone  in  his  face  as  he  watched  her  in  the 
struggle  to  parry. 

She  asked  time,  but  finally  consented  to  the  terms, 
on  condition  that  she  be  the  judge,  inasmuch  as  he 
had  named  the  stake. 

Here  he  had  to  ask  time,  for  he  discerned  her 
affected  innocence.  He  studied  the  premise  and  the 
conditions,  with  her  as  the  sole  judge  of  the  contest. 
Suppose  she  declared  herself  the  winner;  then  he 
must  be  the  loser,  and  she  would  have  to  take  him. 
Suppose  she  declared  him  the  winner,  then  she  must 
be  the  loser,  and  consequently  his  prize.  It  seemed 
to  be  as  broad  as  it  was  long,  so  he  consented.  He 
made  the  mound  into  a  bloom  of  lilacs,  which  he 
gathered  from  the  screening  hedge  surrounding  the 
the  graveyard,  and  indicated  for  her  to  sit  on  the  top 
as  her  position  in  the  coronation  ceremony. 

But  first  she  must  "  fix  "  her  hair.  It  is  strange 
why  women  with  beautiful  hair  have  to  "  fix  "  it  so 
often.  She  drew  her  chin  against  her  throat,  as 


54  TAMAM 

one  does  preparatory  to  this  operation,  and  lifted 
her  hands  to  the  back  of  her  head.  Her  loose  sleeves 
fell  to  the  elbows,  leaving  the  white  arms  in  contrast 
with  the  raven-black  hair,  while  she  played  her  fingers 
through  the  tresses.  Her  face  in  this  position 
caused  her  to  cast  her  eyes  upward,  after  the  man- 
ner of  Raphael's  cherubs,  as  she  looked  at  him,  while 
the  rich  melody  of  her  laughter  filled  the  stillness  of 
the  twilight. 

After  the  hair  had  been  fixed,  refixed  and  fixed 
again,  she  seated  herself  upon  the  improvised  throne, 
adjusted  her  skirts  in  graceful  folds,  drew  herself 
up  to  her  full  sitting  height,  and,  slightly  elevating 
her  chin,  assumed  a  pose  of  magnificent  dignity. 

In  the  same  spirit  he  made  a  low  bow,  took  his 
position,  standing  behind  her  with  the  bedecked 
wreath  extended  above  her  head,  maintaining  his 
dignity  as  he  spoke. 

"  In  the  presence  of  your  immortal  ancestors 
through  the  past  three  generations,  I  stand  in  the 
performance  of  the  glorious  honor  which  is  mine  to- 
day. 

"  Great  as  were  your  fathers  in  the  heroic  days  of 
'76,  the  makers  of  history  in  1812,  and  none  the  less 
true  to  their  convictions  in  1860 ;  greater  than  they 
was  their  inspiration — their  wives — and  their  pos- 
terity, this  daughter,  is  no  less. 

"  Womanhood !  in  the  unadorned  beauty  of  your 
presence,  we  make  our  obeisance  to  the  majestic 
sway  of  your  influence. 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  55 

"  Was  there  ever  man  unsusceptible  to  the  magnet- 
ism of  your  charms?  Was  there  ever  man  who  did 
not  float  in  a  billow  of  pride  when  you  smiled  coun- 
tenance to  his  act?  Was  there  ever  a  man  who  did 
not  cower  in  humiliation  when  his  act  had  brought 
to  your  face  the  startled  flush  and  tremor  of  doubt? 
If  so,  he  is  lost. 

"  The  breath  of  your  existence  fans  into  flame  the 
spark  of  ambition  you  create  in  our  breast. 

"  The  aroma  of  your  fragrant  nature  is  the 
anaesthetic  to  our  morose  temperament. 

"  You  are  the  fanciful  conception,  the  coloring, 
the  flower  of  the  animate  world. 

"  As  our  sweethearts,  we  bask  in  the  sunshine  of 
your  souls.  As  our  wives,  you  are  a  sacred  halo 
about  our  lives.  As  our  mothers,  you  are  the  foun- 
tain from  which  springs  all  that  is  good  within  us. 

"  Queenly  daughter,  at  the  threshold  of  woman- 
hood you  have  inherited  the  graces  of  your  mothers ; 
each  grace  is  a  charm,  ea/ch  charm  is  a  pearl,  while 
they  are  countless  as  the  sands  of  the  seas. 

"  For  every  leaf  in  the  garland  I  hold,  there  is 
a  worshiper  at  your  shrine.  Each  flower  in  it  is  the 
bloom  of  ecstasy  that  opens  in  the  radiance  of  your 
love. 

"  And  now,  in  the  happy  compliance  with  my  priv- 
ilege, I  crown  you  the  Queen  of  Hearts." 

"  Good !  "  exclaimed  the  Queen,  clapping  her  hands 
and  dancing  around  the  mound,  as  though  the  strain 
of  imperial  dignity  must  find  an  outlet. 


56  TAMAM 

In  the  final  "  fix  "  of  her  hair,  preparatory  to  the 
coronation,  she  had  left  it  falling  loosely  down  her 
back. 

"  I  must  make  my  curtsy  to  your  tribute  to  woman- 
hood," and  she  gathered  her  skirts  at  the  sides,  lifted 
them  a  trifle,  placed  one  foot  to  the  rear  and  op- 
posite, and  slowly  sank  into  a  mass  of  folds. 

As  she  arose  she  dexterously  gave  her  head  a 
kind  of  toss,  causing  the  hair  to  divide  and  fall  over 
each  shoulder,  leaving  her  with  the  appearance  of  one 
wearing  an  exquisite  silken  shawl. 

And  then,  as  if  it  were  possible  that  the  spirit  of 
the  coquette  could  yet  be  unsatiated,  she  took  a 
cluster  of  lilacs,  fixed  them  in  her  corsage,  and,  with 
that  serenity  born  only  in  woman,  plucked  a  few 
violets  from  the  side  of  her  father's  grave. 

In  that  momentary  lull  which  always  follows  ex- 
citement, she  stood  with  a  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes  as  she  raised  the  violets  to  her  lips. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  symphony  in  color  as  was 
made  by  those  lilacs,  those  violets,  those  myrtle 
blooms  and  those  eyes? 

She  took  a  deep  breath,  inhaling  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers. 

He  saw  the  enchanting  swell  in  her  bosom,  and 
as  she  exhaled,  it  suggested  a  sigh,  as  if  she  had 
found  in  it  the  fragrance  of  an  unknown  father's 
love. 

An  involuntary  sound  from  his  lips  followed,  suf- 
ficiently audible  in  the  silence  to  attract  her  atten- 
tion, and  it  caused  her  to  turn  suddenly  toward  him. 


"FOREST    RETREAT'5  57 

This  produced  a  slight  embarrassment  on  the  part 
of  each,  for  she  found  him  in  a  kind  of  hypnotic 
stare,  watching  her  every  movement. 

"  Oh !  I  forgot,  I  have  not  crowned  you,"  she 
said,  as  the  inevitable  ripple  of  laughter  escaped. 

"  I  was  just  wondering  if  I  am  to  take  the  prize 
by  default?  "  he  replied  in  a  droll  humor,  and  again 
the  tension  was  relaxed. 

She  took  the  lilacs  from  the  mound,  explaining 
he  was  not  to  have  any  in  his  coronation,  because 
flowers  were  associated  with  feminine  weakness  and 
not  with  heroic  conquerors.  She  must  be  original, 
and  doubtless  had  he  not  made  use  of  them  she  would 
have  done  so,  with  a  reverse  in  the  historical  deduc- 
tion. 

He  took  his  seat  on  the  green  throne,  she  standing 
behind  him  with  the  unadorned  wreath  she  had  made, 
swinging  on  her  arm. 

"  Will  you  promise  to  be  good  and  not  make  me 
laugh  in  the  midst  of  my  speech?  "  she  asked,  tak- 
ing a  few  strands  of  his  hair  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  that  she  might  force  his  consent. 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  solemn,"  was  his  reply,  for  this 
was  now  the  easiest  thing  he  could  do.  His  jocular 
mood  was  weakening,  and  his  zest  for  repartee  was 
giving  way  before  the  pall  of  seriousness  that  was 
creeping  over  his  spirit. 

That  sparkling  effervescence  with  which  he  was 
naturally  endowed  had  flown,  leaving  him  enthralled 
in  poetic  pathos. 

The  Queen  must  laugh  once  more  before  she  har- 


58  TAMAM 

nessed  her   risibles ;   after  which,   in    a    truly   regal 
voice,  she  began: 

"  My  most  respected  ancestors,  I  call  upon  you 
to  witness  the  Queen  of  Hearts  in  the  performance 
of  the  crowning  glory  of  her  achievements.  I  stand 
here  to  execute  the  loftiest  ideal  of  woman,  the  pay- 
ment of  a  tribute  to  the  honor  of  man. 

"  Manhood !  the  synonym  for  bravery,  gallantry 
and  chivalry,  in  your  hands  we  unhesitatingly  place 
our  destiny.  In  you  we  find  nobility  embalmed  in 
the  steadfastness  of  purpose.  In  you  we  find 
strength  for  our  weakness,  succor  for  our  need.  In 
you  we  find  a  vassal  in  the  presence  of  desire,  a  pro- 
tector in  the  presence  of  foes,  a  refuge  in  the  pres- 
ence of  sorrow. 

"  We  concede  your  superiority,  and  ask  only  to  be 
your  helpmate. 

"  If  you  are  moved  by  our  influence,  it  is  because 
the  generosity  of  your  character  has  sympathy  for 
our  wish.  If  you  covet  our  smile  of  approval,  it  is 
because  you  ask  only  what  we  can  give,  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  our  appreciation.  If  you  shrink  under 
our  frown  of  disapproval,  it  is  because  your  nobler 
self  ever  comes  to  your  rescue  at  the  time  of  inadvert- 
ence. 

"  As  we  are  the  embellished  creations  of  fancy,  so 
are  you  the  sombre,  solid,  indestructible  foundations 
of  our  being. 

"  As  our  suitors,  we  revel  in  the  attention  shown 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  59 

us.  As  our  husbands,  you  are  trusted  pilots  on  the 
uncharted  seas  of  life.  As  our  fathers,  you  are  the 
Nestors  of  our  homes. 

"  Princely  son !  Providence  has  seen  fit  to  clothe 
you  with  an  inborn  character  which  bespeaks 
courtesy,  thoughtfulness,  generosity,  justice,  hon- 
esty and  truth.  In  your  countenance  is  the  mark  of 
trust.  In  the  spontaneity  of  your  wit  lies  the  soul  of 
culture. 

"  Each  leaf,  in  the  garland  I  hold,  is  my  wish. 
One  is  for  the  maintenance  of  your  physical  strength ; 
one  is  that  the  pathway  of  your  life  may  conceal 
no  pitfalls ;  one,  that  your  ability  may  receive  its 
just  recognition;  one  is  that  your  happiness  may  in- 
crease with  your  days ;  one,  that  your  days  may 
continue  to  the  allotted  number ;  one,  that  your  death 
may  be  the  peaceful  passing  of  a  spirit,  bathed  in  the 
incense  of  love  from  those  who  have  been  nourished 
by  the  fruits  of  your  life.  And  all  the  wishes  that 
are  left  I  would  have  combined  in  one,  that  it  may 
be  the  stronger.  This  wish  is  that  she  whom  you 
honor  with  the  offer  of  your  hand  may  receive  from 
God  the  gift  of  every  quality  that  goes  to  make 
woman  in  the  supreme  sense,  that  she  may  be  a  fitting 
helpmate. 

"  The  garland  needs  no  blossoms,  for  it  will  rest 
upon  the  flower  of  youth. 

"  And  now,  as  your  august  Queen,  I  assert  my 
royal  prerogative,  and  crown  you  my  Princely  Con- 
queror." 


60  TAMAM 

He  did  not  clap  his  hands  in  applause,  or  even 
arise  from  the  mound. 

The  serious  coloring  which  the  Queen  had  put 
into  her  voice  gave  place  to  laughter  which,  if  pos- 
sible, had  never  before  been  so  musical.  Her  mirth 
seemed  to  boil  over,  for  she  felt  she  had  held  her  own 
in  the  contest.  She  dropped  on  her  knees  before 
him,  resting  her  extended  arms  on  the  base  of  the 
mound,  after  the  manner  of  one  "  on  all  fours." 
The  raven-black  hair  fell  over  one  shoulder,  like  a 
mantle  in  graceful  folds,  terminating  in  delicately 
twisting  ends,  which  stood  out  in  the  soft  breeze — 
truly  the  floating  of  zephyr  upon  zephyr.  Again 
she  had  to  lift  her  eyes  in  the  same  cherubic  manner, 
as  she  tantalizingly  peered  up  into  his  face.  Then 
in  a  burst  of  chiding  laughter  she  told  him  he  was 
mean,  not  to  applaud. 

When  he  spoke  there  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  and 
his  breathing  showed  a  tempest  in  his  breast. 

"  I  am  saving  my  applause  for  the  decision  of  the 
judge,"  he  said  in  measured  words. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  replied;  "the  judge  declares  it 
a  drawn  contest,  and  there  will  be  no  prize."  With 
that  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  ran  out  of  the  gate,  on 
toward  the  house,  leaving  in  her  wake  only  ripples  of 
marvelous  laughter. 

The  only  move  he  made  was  to  place  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  rest  his  chin  in  his  hands. 

The  twilight  was  fading  into  dusk,  and  with  it 
came  the  stillness  which  accompanies  this  period  of 
the  day. 


"FOREST    RETREAT"  61 

As  he  gazed  at  some  quivering  shadows  on  a  marble 
slab  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the  tremble  of 
the  aspens  and  the  moan  of  the  pines. 

The  darkness  thickened  and  the  shadows  united 
to  form  larger  and  more  grotesque  forms.  The 
calm  was  broken  by  a  breeze  which  caused  the  trees 
to  move,  and  with  this  the  grotesque  forms  began 
to  dance  and  chase,  as  in  childish  play.  The  breeze 
increased,  and  the  forms  became  more  rude,  rushed 
against  each  other  with  leaps  and  bounds,  passed 
from  one  slab  to  another,  dashed  themselves  to  pieces 
on  the  ground,  then  sprang  back  to  their  first  quiver- 
ing forms,  only  to  repeat  the  tragedy. 

He  watched  the  process  of  self-annihilation  until 
the  forms  seemed  to  tire  of  their  ghost  dance.  They 
became  sullen,  no  longer  even  quivered,  but  assumed 
a  motionless  position  in  thick  black  masses.  They 
appeared  to  feel  satisfied  they  held  him  in  their  grasp, 
as  a  serpent  transfixes  its  prey  through  the  stare  of 
its  eye. 

With  a  sudden  motion  he  caught  his  breath,  par- 
tially straightened  up,  and  in  the  same  movement 
placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  against  his  lips,  as  if 
to  suppress  an  utterance. 

Could  it  be  that  the  very  tombstones  were  begin- 
ning to  quiver?  Were  they  going  to  frolic  and 
chase  in  playful  glee,  after  which  they  would  work 
themselves  into  furious  rage,  and  hurl  their  ponder- 
ous weights,  with  desperate  crash,  into  each  other's 
granite  sides? 

The  terrific  pumping  of  his  heart  caused  the  blood 


62  TAMAM 

to  rush  through  his  veins  and  swell  his  temples  until 
it  seemed  it  would  ooze  out,  like  drops  of  perspira- 
tion. 

O  precious  soul!  you  are  fast  in  the  clutches  of 
the  mystery  of  "  Forest  Retreat's  "  graveyard.  You 
are  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  secret  ghost.  Afar, 
and  with  prayerful  aspect,  we  await  you  as  you 
struggle  through  the  unequal  combat.  Henceforth 
you  must  unite  with  us  in  the  silent  custody  of  the 
mystery. 

Still,  in  mute  helplessness,  he  stared  at  the  picture 
before  him. 

The  breeze  was  coming  again ;  he  felt  its  coolness 
on  his  brow.  The  aspens  began  to  shiver,  and  the 
moan  of  the  pines  was  like  a  siren  as  it  gradually 
increases  the  speed  of  its  revolution. 

He  began  to  quiver,  then  to  tremble,  then  to  shake 
in  piteous  emotion. 

The  siren  in  the  pines  rose  to  a  wail,  then  a  howl, 
then  a  screech. 

Finally,  making  a  supreme  effort,  he  arose  to  his 
feet,  staggered  over  to  the  large  white  slab  which 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  soldier's  grave,  rested  his 
arms  on  it,  and,  making  a  sound  that  could  have  been 
either  a  sigh  or  a  sob,  buried  his  face  in  his  arms. 

This  movement  caused  the  myrtle  wreath  to  slip 
from  his  head,  and  it  fell  squarely  on  the  grave  at  his 
feet,  as  if  he  had  been  shorn  of  his  laurels  that  a 
real  hero  should  be  crowned. 

Before  raising  his  head,  a  sound,  audible  like  the 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  63 

plaintive  murmurs  of  prayer,  came  from  his  lips. 
Having  regained  self-control,  he  straightened  up. 
The  wind  had  passed,  and  calm  reigned  once  more. 

From  a  movement  it  appeared  he  had  just  become 
aware  of  the  loss  of  his  wreath.  He  leaned  forward 
to  feel  for  it,  but  arrested  himself  balanced  on  one 
foot,  the  other  knee  slightly  bent,  as  in  the  first  at- 
titude of  stooping.  His  head  remained  drooped, 
while  he  folded  his  arms.  Through  the  screen  of 
darkness  he  saw  the  last  spent  rays  of  a  well-faded 
day  as  they  reflected  from  the  vitreous  leaves  of  the 
wreath.  The  reflections  changed  into  winks,  and  he 
felt  the  wreath  was  looking  at  him  in  defiance,  while 
its  tiny  tendrils  already  attached  themselves  to  the 
grass  in  an  effort  to  resist  removal. 

After  a  few  pensive  moments  he  appeared  to  have 
reached  decision.  He  completed  his  stooping  and 
turned,  lightly  feeling  over  the  grass  near  the  grave 
with  his  fingers,  picked  up  the  little  wilted  violets 
she  had  dropped,  and  placed  them  on  the  grave  near 
the  wreath.  He  hesitated,  recalled  her  words, 
"  Flowers  are  not  associated  with  heroic  conquerors," 
then  took  up  the  violets  and  fixed  them  in  the  but- 
ton-hole of  his  lapel. 

He  made  his  way  through  the  gate  and  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  ripples  of  laughter.  There  was 
an  imprint  upon  his  countenance,  and  a  faltering  in 
his  footsteps.  He  had  seen  the  ghost  of  "  Forest 
Retreat  " — the  "  ghost  of  a  hope  "  that  she  might 
some  day  crown  his  life  with  that  crown  of  happi- 


64  TAMAM 

ness  in  which  there  would  be  no  jewel  more  precious 
than  herself. 

And  the  aspens  trembled  and  the  pines  moaned. 


When  he  retired  for  sleep  that  night  his  was  a 
weary  body  and  a  tumultuous  brain. 

Physical  strength  is  the  measure  of  capability  in 
nervous  expenditure,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  tired 
indicates  no  weakness.  That  indescribable  sensation 
of  the  moment  of  contact  between  a  tired  body  and 
a  comfortable  bed  was  his. 

Throughout  the  day  there  seems  to  be  a  series  of 
magnetic  currents  playing  between  one  and  the  place 
of  his  night's  rest.  In  the  morning  the  forces  are 
normally  repellent,  but  by  evening  they  will  have 
reversed,  and  the  force  of  attraction  increases,  until 
we  find  our  bodies  merely  supply  the  office  of 
"  keeper  "  to  a  magnet  bed. 

Attire  yourself  for  your  night's  sleep.  There  is 
the  space  between  the  head  and  foot  poles  of  the 
magnet.  Connect  these  points  with  your  body,  the 
"  keeper."  The  burst  of  pent-up  currents  that  race 
through  you,  causing  that  soothing  of  your  muscles, 
is  the  payment  Nature  makes  for  a  day's  toil. 

For  the  moment  this  soothing  was  his.  The  linen 
cover  on  his  down  pillow  was  a  cooling  salve  to  his 
flushed  cheek  and  throbbing  temple.  There  was 
complete  relaxation,  gradually  fading  into  semi-con- 
sciousness— the  critical  point  in  "  going  to  sleep." 

If  you  wish  to  drive  a  flock  of  sheep  through  a 
gate,  you  will  find  little  trouble  in  concentrating 


"FOREST    RETREAT'  65 

them  at  the  opening;  but  there  is  the  time  for  cau- 
tion. The  fact  that  you  may  have  them  actually  be- 
tween the  gate  posts  is  the  very  reason  they  will 
scramble  over  each  other,  and  rush  back  at  the  risk 
of  their  lives,  should  you  attempt  to  force  them. 
The  reassembling  of  them  will  prove  difficult;  they 
have  become  suspicious.  You  may  succeed  and  mass 
them  near  the  gate  a  second  time.  You  will  have 
learned  something  about  the  animals'  natures,  so 
remain  at  a  distance.  Again  they  stand  solidly  in 
the  gate-way  for  a  moment,  when  the  foremost  one 
may  chance  to  toss  its  head  with  a  snort.  The  tossed 
head  strikes  the  sheep  nearest,  knocking  him  slightly 
backward,  and  the  sound  startles  him,  causing  his 
movement  to  be  increased.  Through  this  means  the 
momentum  of  the  mass,  due  to  the  acceleration  of 
fright,  will  have  become  such  that  the  last  sheep  is 
thrown  completely  around,  and  terrified  to  desperate 
flight,  whereupon  the  flock  will  follow. 

Had  the  sheep  entered  you  could  have  closed  them 
in  the  fold  for  the  night.  As  it  is,  you  must  keep 
watch  over  the  scattered  flock.  They  may  tax  your 
patience  and  your  strength. 

In  entering  upon  your  sleep  for  the  night,  be 
careful  when  you  get  your  sheep  to  the  gate. 

The  cooling  salve  of  his  pillow  warmed  to  the 
tumult  of  his  brain,  making  his  thoughts  rush  back 
to  the  closing  of  the  day  in  the  graveyard.  He  had 
a  restless  night ;  he  had  to  watch  his  scattered  sheep. 

The  blessing  of  sleep  is  most  apparent  when 
noticed  least.  If  life  was  the  first  result  of  creation, 
sleep  must  have  been  the  second. 


66  TAMAM 

Who  has  never  spent  a  night  wooing  Nature's 
balm  for  every  .  anguish  of  mind  and  body,  and 
found  her  affections  unrequited?  You  reason  you 
should  go  to  sleep,  then  rest  on  your  accustomed  side, 
adjust  your  covers,  embrace  your  pillow  with  one 
arm,  take  a  deep  breath  and  await  the  mysterious 
tide  to  carry  you  out.  The  tide  does  not  come,  so 
you  try  the  reverse  side  with  a  feeling  of  suspicion 
as  to  a  successful  launching.  A  second  failure  may 
increase  the  determination,  so  you  try  it  on  physio- 
logical principles ;  rest  on  your  back  with  out- 
stretched lower  limbs,  fold  your  arms  over  your  head 
to  give  your  heated  blood  a  better  chance  for  cir- 
culation, remove  your  pillow  to  place  your  cheek  on 
the  cool  spot  beneath  it.  Failure  here  means  despera- 
tion, and  you  clutch  at  your  covers  with  an  outburst 
of  impassioned  wrath.  You  toss  until  your  body 
feels  physical  exhaustion,  and  there  is  that  drawn 
feeling  in  your  face  consequent  to  unrelaxed  muscles. 
There  is  yet  one  resort.  It  is  to  bring  yourself  into 
a  hypnotic  state. 

When  the  eye  is  open,  it  is  impossible  to  prevent 
it  being  focussed  on  some  object;  when  the  brain  is 
awake,  it  is  impossible  to  prevent  it  being  focussed  in 
some  thought.  To  break  this  focus  will  bring  about 
sleep. 

Go  through  the  entangled  labyrinth  of  your  mind, 
collect  your  scattered  thoughts,  resolve  them  into 
one,  easing  the  focus  on  this  one  until  it  gradually 
fades,  and  once  more  you  have  your  scattered  sheep 
at  the  portals  of  their  fold. 


"FOREST  RETREAT"  67 

What  a  panacea  sleep  is !  If  it  is  whispered 
from  the  sick  room  "  the  patient  sleeps,"  a  sense  of 
relief  fills  us. 

Sleep  is  an  intoxication,  rapturous  and  divine ;  the 
mellower  of  antipathy,  the  solvent  of  dilemma,  the 
oil  on  the  waves  of  tempestuous  anguish.  It  is  a 
psychological  phenomenon  we  class  with  the  myriad 
of  unknowns. 

No  one  can  look  into  the  face  of  a  sleeping  person 
and  not  be  pervaded  with  a  sense  of  awe.  There  is 
too  much  suggestion  as  to  the  possible  presence  of 
some  guarding  spirit  from  the  realm  of  a  creative 
power.  When  asleep,  the  expression  of  servility  is 
not  found  in  the  face  of  the  menial,  the  accustomed 
smile  has  vanished  from  the  countenance  of  the  little 
child,  the  hauteur  of  the  ostentatious  has  become 
dissipated,  and  the  three  stand  on  common  ground 
in  the  majesty  of  their  dignity,  equal  communicants 
at  Nature's  fountain  of  blessings. 

When  we  go  fo  our  "  garden  of  sleep,"  and  grope 
at  the  impenetrable  veil  of  mystery  separating  the 
living  and  the  dead ;  when  in  the  embroilment  of  emo- 
tion we  stand  by  the  open  grave,  while  one  all  placid 
in  countenance  is  lowered  into  the  absorbent  folds  of 
Nature's  coverlet,  our  souls,  in  their  supplicant 
yearning,  indulge  us  in  the  poetic  conception,  "  He 
sleeps." 

When  we,  in  the  hush  of  solitude,  stand  by  the 
newly  formed  mound  we  cannot  admit  of  disturbed 
sleep.  Should  the  grave  of  the  most  inhuman  tyrant 
of  history  be  marked  with  a  slab  bearing  the  legend 


68  TAMAM 

Insomnia,  we  would  shudder  at  the  thought  of  such 
torture. 

We  know  but  the  one  kind  of  sleep  for  those  in  our 
garden.  They  never  have  trouble  with  their  sheep. 
The  soothing  currents  are  always  coursing  through 
their  bodies.  Their  pillow  of  soft  earth  is  ever  a  cool- 
ing salve.  Their  sleep  is  one  sweet  perpetual  dream 
of  an  unbroken  chain  of  the  golden  moments  of  child- 
hood, linked  with  the  boundless  enthusiasm  of  youth, 
and  the  satisfaction  in  a  beautifully  ripened  age. 

Our  love  stimulates  our  fancy,  which  in  turn  pre- 
dominates our  belief.  As  a  cold  stern  reality,  we 
know  nothing.  At  the  grave  our  minds  become 
nebulous,  and  we  unhesitatingly  concede  the  greatest 
mystery  of  life  lies  in  the  archives  of  our  graveyard, 
the  mystery  of  death. 

From  that  night,  his  was  a  changed  life. 

It  is  always  sad  to  see  the  first  effects  of  frost  in 
the  fall,  the  first  withered  leaf  to  curl  its  corners 
and  droop  in  its  surrender  of  the  throne  of  sum- 
mer. And  how  much  more  so  to  see  the  first  frosts 
on  ambition ;  the  first  blight  on  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth. 

What  is  there  in  life  comparable  with  that  period 
of  youth  when  in  the  flush  of  vigor  we  look  down  the 
vista  of  a  fancied  career  where  the  perspective  has 
so  deceivingly  distorted  the  stumbling  places,  the 
jars  and  the  reverses,  that  it  appears  one  beautiful 
grassy  slope ;  that  period  when  the  amorous  emotions 
are  healthy,  wholesome  and  undaunted? 


"FOREST  RETREAT"  69 

Was  his  sleepless  night  a  jar,  such  as  to  throw 
him  out  of  the  grassy  slope  into  the  rut  worn  by 
others  in  their  wanderings  through  the  entanglement 
of  reverses?  Would  he  pass  through  and  look  back 
to  find  the  vista  only  a  mirage? 

The  posthumous  daughter  fared  differently,  if 
judged  from  her  outward  appearance  the  next  morn- 
ing. All  of  her  sleep  must  have  been  "  beauty  sleep." 
It  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  that  for  a  pillow  she 
cooled  her  cheek  on  a  "  poultice  "  of  milk  and  roses. 
Her  sheep  were  always  docile  lambs,  lovingly  obedi- 
ent to  their  shepherdess. 


II 

ARLINGTON 

"  On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground, 
Their  silent  tents  are  spread." 

EMOTION  is  the  quintessence  of  our  nervous  sys- 
tem, that  indefinite  part  of  our  organization  which 
through  poetic  license  is  styled  "  the  heart."  It  is 
the  dormant  motive  in  action,  the  exuberance  from  a 
trepid  soul — in  the  human  Leyden  jar,  the  subtle 
charging  fluid. 

Emotion  expressed  is  the  acme  of  pity,  the  weak- 
ening, withering  discharge,  leaving  the  Leyden  jar 
inert.  Emotion  retained  is  rhythmical  harmony,  the 
poise,  the  poetry,  the  music  of  life.  It  is  the  fer- 
ment in  our  jealousies,  the  yeast  in  our  pride,  the 
golden  silence  in  our  strength,  the  brazen  speech  in 
our  weakness. 

The  creative  instinct  in  art  is  but  emotion.  With- 
out it,  the  song  of  the  poet,  the  eloquence  of  the 
orator,  the  triumph  of  the  soldier  would  be  innocuous 
bauble. 

It  is  in  our  emotional  nature  where  the  composer 
revels,  for  by  him  it  may  be  expressed  and  yet  re- 
tained. It  is  he  who  interprets  prosaic  words  into 
the  divine  language  of  music ;  he  who  speaks  for  us 

70 


ARLINGTON  71 

in  tones  that  set  in  unison  the  vibrations  of  our 
souls,  until  in  harmony  they  blend  and  soar  from 
us.  It  is  he  who  speaks  for  us  from  those  innermost 
recesses,  the  habitation  of  the  unschooled,  untutored, 
unconventional  but  pristinely  pure  and  inspired  con- 
ceptions, the  trysting  place  of  the  soul  with  fancy. 
He  speaks  for  us  in  language  tha£  knows  no  tongue, 
that  is  neither  bound  in  the  shackles  of  words,  per- 
forated with  the  punctilios  of  accent,  nor  scarred 
with  the  slurs  of  rhetoric,  but  clothed  in  phrase  and 
harmony  with  limitless  license  to  intermingle  the 
ecstasy  of  hope  and  the  agony  of  despair.  He  tells 
for  us  the  longing  of  a  heart,  the  pining  of  a  spirit, 
the  wail  of  a  soul,  the  martial  feeling  of  patriotism, 
the  pride  in  victory,  and  of  the  soothing  incense  that 
rises  from  the  sacrifice  of  life  that  others  may  live. 

A  not  infrequent  sight  in  the  streets  of  the  nation's 
Capital  is  a  military  funeral  procession.  There  is 
the  clatter  of  distant  hoofs,  the  flash  of  sunlight  on 
polished  brass,  the  swirl  of  a  crowd,  a  muffled  rumble 
accompanied  by  the  grit  and  grind  of  caisson  wheels. 
The  clatter  distracts  our  preoccupied  self,  the  flash 
stimulates  us  to  alertness,  the  swirl  draws  us  toward 
its  vortex,  yet  ours  is  but  passing  curiosity.  The 
grind  of  wheels  may  cause  a  shiver,  and  the  sight 
of  our  nation's  flag  used  as  a  winding-sheet  may 
cause  a  momentary  convulsion  in  our  breasts ;  yet  we 
remain  master  of  ourselves,  and  stand  in  dignified 
silence,  emotion  retained.  We  feel  we  are  the  repre- 
sentatives of  strength,  action  and  life,  life  with  all  its 
possibilities.  How  we  rise  in  comparison  with  the 


72  TAMAM 

closed  career  before  us,  terminating  in  a  winding- 
sheet.  Our  bosoms  swell  with  secret  pride. 

Presently  there  comes  a  strange  sound  from  the 
drums.  Are  the  drummers  possessed  with  a  spirit  of 
derision,  that  they  should  appear  so  indifferent  to 
the  simple  principles  of  rhythm?  At  first  it  seems 
an  incongruous  rattle,  then  becomes  more  subdued, 
followed  by  the  muffled  accompaniment  of  the  alto 
instruments, — the  screeching  tenors  are  silent, — 
lending  a  tint  of  sombre  coloring  to  the  brilliancy 
of  the  uniforms  and  the  caparisoned  horses.  A  sen- 
sation of  uneasiness  begins  to  show  itself  throughout 
the  procession.  The  cavalry  escort  unconsciously 
pull  the  visors  of  their  caps  lower.  Though  the 
musicians  have  played  this  strain  innumerable  times, 
they  mechanically  tighten  their  grasp  on  the  instru- 
ments, for,  to  them  and  to  the  cavalry,  these  func- 
tions are  but  routine  duties,  until  the  marvelous 
strain  is  reached.  Here  these  men  who  are  taught 
to  face  danger  with  stolid  indifference ;  these  men 
whose  only  faith  and  creed  is  based  on  the  law  of 
chance  in  which  their  lives  are  the  unit  in  calculation, 
here  they  submissively  bend  as  the  icy  shiver  of  emo- 
tion, expressed,  sends  through  them  a  momentary 
quiver,  for  the  sublime  in  composition  has  been 
reached.  It  is  the  immortal  Prelude  of  the  Chopin 
"  March  Funebre."  Our  pride-swollen  bosoms  col- 
lapse; and,  as  the  Prelude  continues,  we  scourge  our- 
selves in  humiliation. 

Without  the  Prelude  there  would  be  many  tearless 
funerals,  and  with  the  Prelude  many  an  undeserving 


ARLINGTON  73 

wretch  has  gone  to  his  grave  bathed  in  the  tears 
of  absolution. 

If  the  dirge  is  not  played,  it  is  sometimes  refresh- 
ing to  see  a  military  funeral,  so  marked  is  the  con- 
trast with  that  of  the  civilian,  with  its  long  train 
of  creeping  carriages,  its  glistening,  silvered,  ebony- 
and-glass  carriage,  drawn  by  horses  wearing  black 
fly-nets  and  ear-bobs,  and  the  heavy  odor  of  flowers 
mingling  with  silent  figures  massed  in  crepe  veiling. 

What  a  relief  is  that  of  the  soldier,  where  the 
caisson  horses  swing  around  in  a  trot,  or  the  artil- 
lerymen must  hold  some  restless  animal  as  he  rears 
for  his  plunge  in  the  start.  No  black  fly-nets  and 
ear-bobs  for  them,  but  lathered  in  the  heat  of  rest- 
less motion,  they  grind  their  bits  and  are  pacified 
only  by  the  rumble  of  wheels  behind.  No  drawn  cur- 
tains there;  no  perfume-laden  air;  no  figures  en- 
cumbered with  crepe  veiling,  but  men  uniformed  to 
permit  of  litheness  and  trained  for  the  dispatch  of 
duty.  One  can  see  they  intend  reaching  the  burial- 
place  on  the  same  day,  and  that  the  duty  will  be 
performed  in  good  taste  and  time.  These  men  have 
not  allowed  themselves  to  become  instilled  with  the 
idea  that  death  is  a  weakness,  a  thoughtless  act  on 
the  part  of  the  demised;  they  remember  their  com- 
rade in  the  activities  of  his  life,  and  in  his  death  will 
attend  him  with  the  same  feeling,  alertness  and  ma- 
chine-like discipline,  emotion  retained. 

And  when  the  firing  squad  lines  up  at  the  grave, 
will  the  sergeant  allow  a  waver  in  his  voice  when 
he  gives  the  command,  fire!  Is  there  a  man  in  the 


74  TAMAM 

squad  whose  finger  will  quiver  on  the  trigger,  such 
that  the  salute  will  not  be  as  one  shot?  If  so,  he 
is  no  credit  to  the  dead  comrade. 

In  the  Capital  it  is  fittingly  said  of  the  soldier: 
"  They  pass  over  the  river,  and  rest  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees." 

Arlington !  when  we  pass  along  your  silent  paths, 
breathing  the  redolent  exhalations  from  your  bosom, 
classic  in  memory  and  fertile  in  the  life-blood  of 
fellow-men ;  when  there  falls  upon  us  the  music  of 
your  arborescent  choir,  soft  and  plaintive,  stealing, 
with  an  exquisite  swell,  into  the  inattentive  ear,  then 
rising  in  a  celestial  descendo,  passing  beyond  reach, 
while  we  strain  to  catch  the  echoes  of  the  ravishing 
chord;  when  we  find  ourselves  in  silent  communion 
with  Nature,  drinking  from  the  cup  of  reminiscence 
and  partaking  of  the  bread  of  future  hope,  our 
thoughts,  in  their  musings,  become  centered  on  those 
whom  you  shelter  in  your  sacred  folds,  and  who,  in 
return  for  the  warmth  of  your  nurture,  create  in 
you  our  historic  "  City  of  the  Dead." 

We  find  ourselves  prone  to  wander  toward  those 
long  symmetrical  lines  of  small  slabs  bearing  epitaphs 
eloquent  in  their  brevity;  they  who  were  privates  in 
life,  but  captains  in  death,  commanders  of  a  nation's 
respect.  Each  modest  slab  marks  a  spot  where  the 
world  has  been  made  more  verdant,  and  the  grand 
ensemble  leaves  us  stilled  in  retrospective  meditation. 
There  are  other  slabs  more  pretentious,  isolated  and 


ARLINGTON  75 

exclusive,  with  legends  that  can  be  read  afar.  They 
are  carved  in  relief  with  a  portrayal  of  valor,  and 
the  degree  of  their  exaltation  from  the  ranks.  Some- 
times the  massive  pedestals  appear  to  overshadow 
the  modest  bit  of  verdure  creeping  from  its  base, 
paled  in  insignificance.  Sometimes  it  is  well  the 
legends  can  be  read  afar.  These  cumbersome  piles, 
though  the  pride  of  a  boastful  posterity,  are  the 
abomination  of  a  valiant  soldier,  for  in  death  all 
heroes  ascend  to  a  common  rank. 

Sometimes,  however,  we  do  stroll  among  the  pedes- 
tals. The  work  of  the  artisan  is  wonderful  in  his 
olive  wreath,  the  intaglio  is  impressive,  and  the 
granite  imperishable.  We  forget  to  look  for  the 
verdure.  There  is  one  pedestal  so  impressively  mas- 
sive, we  instinctively  marvel  at  the  power  necessary 
to  move  it.  There  is  another,  and  we  stop  to  think. 
Yes,  we  recall,  fire  was  his  weapon.  We  sniff  for 
the  redolent  exhalations,  but  our  nostrils  become  filled 
with  the  smoke  from  burning  fatherless  homes,  and 
we  remember  the  jest  about  the  crow  that  would  have 
to  carry  his  rations. 

Another  pedestal,  and  another  jest  is  brought  to 
mind ;  a  bad-tasting  simile,  "  the  bull-dog  of  the 
Navy."  We  strain  our  ears  to  catch  the  hymn  of 
the  arborescent  choir,  but  can  hear  only  a  snarl  and 
the  gnash  of  teeth. 

Our  emotion  rises,  and  we  strive  to  retain  it. 

Do  we  thrive  in  a  spirit  of  justice,  purchased  by 
the  sear  of  a  fire-brand? 


76  TAMAM 

Do  we  use  in  our  nation's  defense  thick-necked, 
heavy -jawed  men,  whose  mouths  droop  at  the  cor- 
ners, men  with  an  insatiable  thirst  for  gore  ? 

Have  they,  whom  we  believed  responded  to  the 
nation's  call  through  nobleness  of  purpose,  done  so 
through  love  of  conquest,  and  taken  advantage  of 
a  nation's  weakness  to  vitalize  an  innate  animal  in- 
stinct for  fight? 

When  we  review  our  military  pageants,  marvel  at 
their  skill,  admire  the  glistening  accoutrements,  and 
give  them  plaudits  as  our  defenders,  do  we  admit 
they  are  chafing  through  the  inactivities  of  peace? 

If  these  are  truths,  then  the  profession  of  arms  is 
base,  it  is  degradation  itself,  and  they  who  follow  it 
are  fiends  incarnate. 

But  there  is  another  pedestal,  and  another  legend: 
"  Let  us  have  peace."  The  hymn  of  the  choir  drifts 
toward  us,  and  the  breath  of  this  soil  is  again  redo- 
lent. We  feel  a  lump  in  our  throat,  characteristic 
of  childhood's  emotion.  Did  the  great  soldier  want 
only  peace?  Do  we  have  among  our  defenders  men 
with  that  for  their  ambition?  Are  there  among 
them  men  who  will  forego  the  charms  of  domestic  life, 
the  excitement  in  the  mercantile  world,  the  esteem  of 
scholarship,  and  hold  themselves  in  ready  training 
to  fight  like  Trojans,  and  fight  for  peace?  If  so, 
theirs  is  the  heritage  of  chivalry. 

The  greatest  soldier  is  he  who  loves  peace  most 
and  war  least. 

We  don't  know  why  we  should  feel  hypercritical 
when  among  the  pedestals,  but  we  like  best  to  go 


ARLINGTON  77 

where  the  slabs  are  small,  and  the  spots  of  verdure 
have  united  to  form  one  continuous  greensward.  For 
there  it  is  we  may  listen  to  the  choir.  A  flow  of 
melody  here,  a  diminuendo  there,  a  crescendo  drift- 
ing on  the  swell  of  harmony,  and  in  the  retard  diffuse 
itself  and  blend  its  whispers  with  the  breath  of 
flowers  to  form  an  incense  of  consolation  as  we 
stand  by,  tearful  in  the  thought  that  we  live  because 
they  died.  Again  we  partake  of  the  bread  of  hope, 
and  pass  along  the  silent  paths. 


A  decade  had  passed  since  the  posthumous 
daughter  pondered  over  the  query  regarding  the  re- 
lationship of  a  woman's  love  and  a  hollow  tree. 

His  was  the  heritage  of  chivalry,  and  during  these 
years  he  had  held  himself  in  ready  training.  In  an 
international  war  the  country  had  struck  a  fierce 
blow  in  its  demand  for  peace.  This  called  him  to  the 
scene  of  action,  far  from  his  native  shore. 

It  is  in  the  calm  following  the  tempest  when  the 
soldier  suffers.  Then  is  when  he  would  turn  to  the 
arms  of  wife,  mother  or  sweetheart.  Read  the  letter 
written  by  the  light  of  a  camp  fire,  the  night  after 
battle,  and  you  read  the  most  tender  sentiments  of 
human  expression.  Letter  writing  is  the  soldier's 
safety  valve  on  the  pressure  of  emotion. 

It  is  during  these  calms  the  soldier's  inactive  body 
absorbs  the  poison  of  fevers,  and  that  most  dreaded 
of  diseases,  nostalgia.  Then  is  when  you  can  hear 
the  clink  of  glasses  and  the  rattle  of  dice,  not  in  a 


78  TAMAM 

spirit  of  revelry,  but  in  desperation.  In  one  of  these 
calms  a  letter  was  written  to  the  posthumous 
daughter. 

".  .  .  Since  that  evening  my  hope  has  been  that 
duty  would  absorb  my  mind,  and  in  this  I  have  been 
blessed  beyond  my  deserving.  .  .  .  May  I  be  par- 
doned when  I  say,  that  could  I  have  had  a  choice,  I 
would  have  fallen  upon  the  field  of  battle  rather  than 
now  admit  the  sound  of  your  voice  has  never  left 
my  ears.  .  .  .  Rumors  of  our  return  bring  smiles  to 
the  face  of  all  save  one.  Can  I,  bowed  in  the  humilia- 
tion of  child-like  weakness,  confess  that  I,  too,  would 
like  to  smile,  and  indulge  myself  for  one  moment  in 
the  thought  that  I  was  returning  to  you?  .  .  .  On 
that  evening  you  fanned  the  spark  into  flame,  and 
it  has  long  since  left  my  youth  a  smouldering  ember 
which  spits  if  it  be  touched  by  fingers  moistened  with 
memories.  .  .  . 

"  My  life  is  not  what  I  would  have  had  it,  and  it 
is  because  of  my  weakness,  not  your  strength.  I  un- 
willingly spent  that  night  in  thought  which  left  me 
in  no  fit  condition  to  decide  on  so  serious  a  question 
as  a  change  in  my  course.  If  I  can  have  made  a 
sacrifice  in  my  personal  happiness,  I  shall  look  for 
my  reward  only  in  the  steadfastness  of  purpose.  I 
have  imposed  upon  myself  a  rigorous  discipline,  be- 
lieving that  to  the  best  end  I  must  be  devoid  of  senti- 
ment, and  allow  the  thought  of  no  one  to  be  a  subter- 
fuge against  my  duty.  .  .  .  The  rapid  flight  of  past 
years  leads  me  to  believe  I  have  been  very  busy,  and 


ARLINGTON  79 

I  feel  conscious  of  a  change  in  my  nature.  .  .  .  The 
strain  has  been  great,  and  this  weakness  developed 
during  relaxation.  I  do  myself  justice  when  I  say 
that  were  I  in  normal  condition  I  would  not  now  be 
writing  this  letter. 

"  Fever  is  prevalent,  but  we  hope  for  the  best. 
Even  I,  at  times,  feel  the  premonitory  symptom,  a 
parched  tongue. 

"  P.  S. — It  is  one  week  later.  I  am  stronger  and 
can  enjoy  a  smile  at  the  possibility  of  my  really  mail- 
ing this  letter.  I  guess  I  had  some  delirium,  and 
thought  I  was  again  under  the  spell  of  those  eyes — 
that  parched  sensation  in  my  tongue  was  another 
strand  of  hair,  eh? 

"  I  shall  place  this  letter  in  its  envelope,  return  it 
to  my  pocket,  and  keep  it  as  a  tantalizing  souvenir 
of  the  first  time,  since  I  varied  my  course,  that  my 
hand  has  trembled  on  the  wheel." 

The  letter  reached  its  destination  bearing  the 
characteristic  red  ink  notification,  "  Mailed  by  Hos- 
pital Orderly." 


Is  there  anything  surpassing  in  freshness  the  early 
hours  of  a  summer's  morning?  When  the  air  has  not 
yet  been  breathed  through  the  lungs  of  daily  toil, 
when  the  vibrations  of  nature  have  not  been  put  out 
of  tune  by  the  jar  of  daily  strife!  This  is  when  you 
hear  the  love-song  of  the  meadow  lark  from  the  high- 
est perch  in  the  woodlands.  This  is  when  you  see  the 


80  TAMAM 

blush  of  the  new-born  rose  when  its  petals  are  first 
kissed  by  the  dew. 

The  posthumous  daughter  knew  these  things,  and 
was  wont  to  steal  from  the  house  and  gather  nar- 
cissus for  the  breakfast  table.  On  the  morning 
following  her  leaving  him  in  the  graveyard  she  did 
not  vary  her  custom,  but  arose  from  the  delicious  in- 
toxication of  wholesome  sleep  and  went  into  the 
garden.  The  perfume  of  lilac  was  everywhere,  the 
sparkle  of  dew  was  fairy-like,  and  the  violet,  her 
favorite  flower,  seemed  to  rise  in  evidence  before 
her. 

Through  the  abundance  of  her  gathering,  if  for 
no  other  reason,  and  with  a  decided  nonchalance,  she 
went  to  place  some  violets  on  her  father's  grave.  It 
was  while  doing  so  that  she  noticed  a  small  pocket 
note-book  which  appeared  to  have  fallen  the  day  be- 
fore. She  read  the  name  and  address,  which  were 
printed  in  gilt  letters  on  the  back,  the  book  evidently 
being  a  gift.  Down  in  the  corner  was  the  word 
"  Diary."  With  not  more  than  a  moment's  hesitation 
she  did  just  what  any  other  woman  would  have  done 
under  like  circumstances — she  opened  it.  Like  the 
diaries  of  most  men,  every  page  in  it  was  as  clean 
as  on  the  day  the  book  was  made. 

From  the  manner  in  which  she  opened  the  book 
there  was  some  disappointment  in  finding  it  blank. 
In  the  afterthought  there  was  some  satisfaction  that 
it  was.  If  she  was  guilty  of  a  breach  of  accidental 
trust,  he  would  yet  be  innocent  of  her  action,  and 
she  could  send  him  the  book  with  no  misgivings.  Be- 


ARLINGTON  81 

fore  her  return  to  the  house  she  had  resolved  to  keep 
it  until  he  should  call  again. 

Now  every  woman  is  firm  in  her  belief  that  every 
man  who  has  at  one  time  been  within  the  sphere  of 
her  influence,  will  again  return.  She  will  concede 
time  to  an  indefinite  extent,  but  not  one  iota  of  her 
faith  in  the  eventual  outcome. 

The  ten  years  had  borne  lightly  on  the  posthumous 
daughter.  Her  blood  was  an  infusion  of  sturdy  an- 
cestry and  an  out-door  life.  She  was  only  becoming 
beautifully  ripened.  And  though  she  had  never 
breathed  his  name  to  a  living  soul,  she  felt  certain  it 
was  ten  years  nearer  the  time  when  he  would  atone 
for  his  silence. 

The  air  of  the  nation,  which  had  been  rife  in  an 
international  strife,  was  subsiding,  troops  were  re- 
turning, and  people  were  flocking  in  the  Capital  to 
meet  them.  Some  they  met,  and  the  greeting  was 
loud  and  joyous.  Some  they  met  and  followed  in 
silence  as  they  crossed  over  the  river  to  the  shade 
of  the  trees.  These  silent  homecomings  continued 
long  after,  for  the  tropical  fevers  had  proven  a 
deadly  foe.  Some,  who  had  separated,  the  one  bear- 
ing the  kiss  of  the  other's  assurance,  came  together 
in  the  shades  of  Arlington. 

When  the  letter  bearing  the  red  ink  stamped  noti- 
fication reached  the  posthumous  daughter,  she  rec- 
ognized it  instantly.  She  knew  it  would  come!  Of 
course  she  was  interested  in  the  stamp ;  but,  as  we  like 
to  do  with  letters  of  serious  moment,  she  postponed 


82  TAMAM 

the  opening  until  the  surroundings  were  more  suit- 
able. She  sought  the  sanctity  of  her  own  room,  and 
from  the  care  and  composure  with  which  she  ar- 
ranged herself  in  a  chair  it  was  evident  she  antici- 
pated a  reverie  of  some  length.  There  she  opened 
the  letter  and  read.  She  fairly  tingled  with  inter- 
est, and  how  the  light  of  satisfaction  danced  in  those 
eyes !  A  smile  played  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
over  the  damask  of  her  cheek.  She  continued  to 
read,  and  the  fire  in  her  eyes,  the  crimson  in  her  lips, 
the  heaving  in  her  bosom  made  her  the  woman  mag- 
nificent, emotion  retained.  The  silence  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  paper  crushing  in  her  hand.  Had 
he  come  only  in  weakness  ?  Why  had  he  not  come  in 
strength?  She  studied  the  red  ink  stamp  a  moment, 
then  with  care  smoothed  out  the  rumpled  letter. 
Just  what  did  the  red  ink  stamp  mean?  It  told  in 
plain  words,  but  did  it  tell  all?  He  had  smiled  at 
the  possibility  of  having  mailed  this  letter,  then  had 
he  mailed  it  that  it  might  tantalize  her,  and  finally 
leave  her  in  chagrin? 

He  had  spoken  of  fever,  and  admitted  some  of  the 
premonitory  symptoms.  He  may  have  gone  to  the 
hospital  for  treatment,  and  there  left  the  letter  on  a 
table,  after  which  the  orderly,  in  the  round  of  his 
duties,  found  it.  She  could  almost  see  him  toying 
with  his  "  tantalizing  souvenir,"  and,  in  careless  in- 
difference, leave  it  on  a  public  writing-table.  She 
wondered  if  he  would  ever  miss  it. 

One  thought  would  assert  itself  in  spite  of  her 
resistance.  Could  it  have  been  taken  from  his  pocket 


ARLINGTON  83 

after  his  death?  Had  the  red  ink  stamp  really  told 
all,  and  did  she  now  hear  in  the  echo  of  his  life  his 
real  nature  rising  from  beneath  the  crush  of  in- 
domitable pride  in  his  steadfastness  of  purpose? 

They  were  tedious  months  that  followed,  and 
through  which  she  waited  in  silent  fear,  lest  she 
might  receive  an  apologetic  note  in  which  his  new 
nature  was  predominant;  a  note  asking  perhaps  for 
the  return  of  a  stray  letter,  should  it  reach  her,  and 
— lest  she  might  not.  She  could  but  wonder  if  it 
were  possible  any  one  had  followed  him,  in  silence,  to 
"  the  shades." 

In  the  aftermath  of  war  there  is  generally  suffi- 
cient reason  for  grand  peace  carnivals,  triumphant 
processions,  memorial  arches,  and  the  like.  Little 
does  it  matter  whether  the  country  was  victor,  there 
is  always  excuse  for  these  pageants  in  a  nation's 
capital,  so  there  the  people  gathered,  which  well 
served  the  purpose  for  her  to  make  the  journey, 
ostensibly  to  participate  in  the  gayeties.  Having  an 
ulterior  motive,  it  was  not  strange  she  soon  sought 
out  the  silent  paths  of  Arlington.  She  came  to  know 
them  well,  and  of  one  thing  she  felt  reasonably  sure: 
she  could  not  have  missed  his  name  had  it  been  there. 
But  this  afforded  no  rest  of  mind,  for  these  were 
busy  times  over  there  in  the  shade,  and  new  slabs 
were  going  up  every  day.  With  the  determination 
of  a  sleuth,  she  watched  for  the  new  mounds,  and 
scanned  the  temporary  boards  placed  at  the  head. 

The  wonderful  old  tomb  of  the  "  Unknown  Dead  " 
became  possessed  with  a  strange  fascination,  and 


84  TAMAM 

served  as  an  objective  point  in  her  wanderings.  In 
the  days  gone  by  many  are  the  tears  that  have  fallen 
at  its  base,  tears  from  the  eyes  of  those  who  have 
wandered  long  in  search  of  loved  ones  and  at  last 
left  their  tribute  at  the  old  tomb.  Divided  in  life, 
but  united  in  death,  are  the  twenty-one  hundred 
heroes  placed  here,  for  a  heart-broken  nation  indis- 
criminately gathered  her  children's  mangled  remains 
from  the  bloodiest  battlefield  in  the  history  of  civil 
strife.  You  can  safely  drop  a  flower  near  this 
shroud  of  mystery  and  feel  that  its  fragrance  is 
wasted  on  no  desert  air. 

Futhermore,  the  tomb  provided  a  shelter  from 
which  she  could  observe  the  busy  workers  and  the 
passing  processions,  for  it  stood  in  the  greensward 
long  since  fertile  in  historic  memory,  and  in  these 
times  people  were  not  coming  that  way,  but  seeking 
the  new  ground  to  consecrate  it  with  the  most  glori- 
ous possession  of  a  nation,  the  lifeblood  of  a  reunited 
people. 

One  morning,  from  this  shelter,  the  posthumous 
daughter  observed  an  open  grave.  Approaching 
it  was  a  carriage,  from  which  alighted  a  veiled  figure, 
dressed  in  black,  supported  on  the  arm  of  a  silver- 
haired  man,  an  army  chaplain.  At  the  same  time 
there  was  heard  a  trampling  of  hoofs  made  by  plung- 
ing horses,  and  the  grind  of  a  heavy  caisson,  bearing 
a  casket,  moving  toward  the  same  open  grave. 

They  were  coming  together  in  the  shades  of  Ar- 
lington. 

The  veiled  figure  awaits  him,  blessed  in  the  com- 


ARLINGTON  85 

posure  of  emotion  retained,  but  it  is  more  than  human 
resistance  she  is  called  upon  to  endure. 

Though  not  far,  yet  humanely  softened  by  dis- 
tance was  the  enthralment  of  mystic  sound.  Wails 
of  majestic  sorrow  resound  in  musical  rhythm,  and 
there  is  a  perceptible  tremor  in  the  outline  of  the 
black-veiled  figure.  As  if  this  were  not  enough,  the 
immortal  Prelude  resolves  into  subdued  whispers  of 
superhuman  expression,  and  in  piteous  supplication 
chants  its  appeal  to  mercy,  toned  from  the  heart's 
life-strings.  The  perceptible  tremor  merges  into 
convulsive  movements,  and  the  silent  figure  in  black 
clutches  the  sleeve  of  the  silver-haired  chaplain.  The 
appeal  of  the  Prelude,  to  Mercy,  is  answered  by  the 
interlude  in  strains  of  sweetness  that  cannot  be 
deemed  of  earth,  but  more  the  voice  of  angels  in  soft- 
breathed  hope  and  consolation.  The  blessing  of  this 
strain  can  only  be  experienced.  It  gives  her  the 
needed  strength,  for  she  releases  the  clutched  sleeve. 
It  enables  the  artillerymen  to  steady  themselves  while 
they  bear  the  casket  to  the  side  of  the  grave.  Not 
one  utterance  has  been  given,  for  who  has  voice  for 
speech  ? 

The  silver-haired  chaplain  leaves  her  side,  and  ad- 
vances. The  breezes  play  in  the  locks  of  his  bared 
head  as  he  stands  with  uplifted  face,  in  silence.  Will 
he  dare  attempt  speech?  Does  he  realize  the  effect 
a  break  in  his  voice  will  produce? 

With  the  assurance  of  divine  aid  his  voice  rings 
out  in  the  stillness,  and  in  pure  accent,  under  perfect 
control,  he  recites  the  burial  service. 


86  TAMAM 

Man  of  God!  you  have  our  gratitude.  You  pre- 
serve us  from  emotion  expressed.  When  we  must 
speak  and  yet  are  choking,  you  come  to  our  rescue. 

As  he  proceeds  he  marvels  at  his  own  self,  but  the 
tremolo  in  his  voice  fast  increases.  His  is  but 
human,  not  infinite  strength.  There  is  yet  one 
sentence  and  he  will  have  concluded.  Oh!  why  was 
this  left  to  the  ebb  of  his  strength? 

"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust "  he  paused,  then 

lowered  his  upturned  face  in  humiliation  at  his 
weakness.  There  was  a  spasmodic  gasp,  and  the 
veiled  figure  fell  in  his  arms. 

When  the  posthumous  daughter  saw  this  she  sank 
to  the  ground  on  her  knees,  swayed  forward,  and 
buried  her  face  in  that  same  grass,  verdant  in  its 
chlorophyl  of  mystery.  She  tore  from  her  bosom  a 
handkerchief,  which  she  placed  over  her  mouth  in  an 
effort  to  check  a  burst  of  emotion.  Withered  and 
weak,  she  arose,  protecting  her  tear-stained  face  as 
best  she  could,  and  hurriedly  passed  out  along  the 
silent  paths. 

Oh!  Arlington,  with  your  wealth  of  classic 
memories,  are  you  born  again,  and  in  a  spirit  of  re- 
taliation, that  you  bring  to  us  such  scenes  ?  Is  there 
concealed  in  the  innocence  of  your  flowers  the  sting 
of  anguish  which  you  thrust  in  silent  vituperation? 
Do  you  seek  your  justification  in  the  following  bit 
of  history  not  yet  lost  from  memory,  though  clothed 
in  the  mystery  of  silence? 


ARLINGTON  87 

The  blighted  hope  of  posterity  born  in  the  breast 
of  the  immortal  Washington  was  palliated  through 
the  adoption  of  a  soft-natured,  flaxen-haired  boy, 
whose  tender  shoulders  were  destined  to  bear  up  un- 
der such  weight  of  importance  as  would  be  attached 
to  the  name  "  George  Washington  Parke  Custis." 
This  youth  was  the  grandson  of  the  great  patriot's 
friend  and  first  husband  of  his — the  patriot's — wife. 
He  was  successively  godson,  namesake,  grand-step- 
son, and  son  by  adoption.  Everything  was  his  herit- 
age save  the  blood  of  his  childless  father,  so  he  was 
taken  to  Mount  Vernon  that  this  might  become  in- 
culcated in  his  veins  by  a  kind  of  induction  process. 
It  requires  no  vivid  imagination  to  picture  the  pomp- 
ous old  General,  erect  and  well-balanced  in  his  saddle, 
riding  out  over  the  great  estate  with  the  little  G.  W. 
P.  C.  perched  up  behind,  sticking  the  heels  of  his 
bare  feet  into  the  horse's  flanks,  his  arms  encircling 
the  waist  of  his  august  foster  parent  in  an  effort  to 
hold  on. 

Mount  Vernon  was  the  home  of  aristocracy,  the 
shrine  of  the  revolutionary  pilgrim,  and  the  Mecca 
of  statesmen.  All  of  this  was  brought  to  bear  011 
the  small  boy,  and  many  who  twined  their  fingers  in 
his  curls  thought  they  were  stroking  the  brow  of  a 
future  minister  to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  But  so 
much  parade  and  that  kind  of  evanescent  peacock 
vanity  which  seemed  to  be  the  old  General's  halo 
must  have  palled  on  the  boy.  Or  he  may  have  got- 
ten in  his  mind  some  idea,  from  unwritten  history, 
o*  how  the  great  aristocrat,  dressed  in  the  warmth 


88  TAMAM 

and  resplendence  of  his  wonderful  uniforms,  used  to 
parade  the  winter  camp  at  Valley  Forge,  exacting 
from  the  ill-clad  and  starving  men  the  obeisance  of  a 
soldier's  attention,  they  standing  in  knee-deep  snow, 
shoeless  and  with  frost-swollen  feet.  Howsoever  it 
may  be,  the  youth  seemed  to  forego  the  temptation  to 
follow  in  the  paths  that  lead  to  greatness,  and  chose 
for  himself  the  innocent  life  of  a  country  gentleman, 
a  choice  that  gave  no  little  disappointment  to  the 
father  of  his  adoption.  When  of  age,  he  went  further 
up  the  Potomac,  took  up  the  hereditary  Arlington 
estate,  which  had  come  down  through  his  ancestors 
as  an  original  grant  from  the  King,  built  for  him- 
self a  mansion  of  classic  Doric  architecture,  and  be- 
came the  "  Squire." 

Arlington,  we  want  to  come  when  there  are  no 
silent  paths,  when  we  can  hear  the  bleat  of  lambs  and 
the  mooing  of  cows ;  when  there  are  no  concrete 
roads,  but  roads  in  the  dust  of  which  we  can  find  the 
prints  of  little  feet ;  when  the  landscape  is  not  marred 
by  the  grotesque  of  geometrically  shaped  flower  beds, 
but  your  lilacs,  buttercups,  and  violets  seek  their  own 
salvation  and  establish  themselves  according  to  the 
law,  "  survival  of  the  fittest  " ;  when  your  shaded 
woodlands  have  not  retained  the  echo  of  the  immor- 
tal Prelude,  but  resound  in  the  frolic  and  laughter 
of  picnic  parties,  and  the  screech  of  fiddles  at  the 
brand  dance. 

The  "  Squire "  was  a  happy  combination :  a 
plebeian  by  birth,  a  patrician  by  environment.  He 
adorned  the  mansion  with  treasures  from  Mount  Ver- 


ARLINGTON  89 

non,  his  "  office  "  with  fox-tails  and  "  coon  "  skin 
caps  of  his  own  catch  and  make.  He  could  don  a 
white  silk  vest  and  preside  as  the  host  of  a  Lafayette, 
or  put  on  a  home-spun  shirt  and  sit  cross-legged  on 
his  horse  while  he  discussed  with  a  neighbor  the 
quality  of  wool  produced  from  crossing  merino 
strains  with  scrub  sheep.  He  knew  how  to  go 
through  the  stately  minuet,  and  that  in  extending  his 
hand  to  a  lady  his  palm  must  be  up.  He  knew  which 
tunes  from  his  own  fiddle  made  the  darkies'  feet  light, 
and  also  when  he  had  an  obstreperous  kinky-haired 
youngster  resting  face  downward  on  his  knee,  his 
palm  should  be  down.  It  can  be  said,  he  was  never 
out  of  his  element,  and  that  he  was  short,  fat,  thin- 
haired  and  happy. 

Arlington  had  wonderful  magnetic  properties  in 
those  days.  The  social  center  had  moved  up  the 
Potomac  after  the  death  of  Washington,  and  left  be- 
hind its  rigid  formality.  Here  the  ladies  did  not 
smile  only  behind  their  fans,  and  it  is  said  that  old 
General  Lafayette  used  to  laugh  until  he  would  suffer 
from  the  shaking  of  a  gouty  foot  contracted  at 
Mount  Vernon.  It  is  even  hinted  that  the  digni- 
fied dance  of  that  day  at  times  seems  to  have  been 
inoculated  with  a  kind  of  syncopated  serum,  which  in 
the  parlance  of  to-day  is  "  rag-time."  However, 
this  is  nothing  more  than  a  deduction  abstracted  from 
the  precious  annals  of  memory,  as  chronicled  in  the 
following  incident: 

The  occasion  was  not  unusual,  though  the  mansion 


90  TAMAM 

was  filled  with  light  and  guests.  Ladies  with  ex- 
quisitely small  waists,  accentuated  by  the  umbrella 
shape  of  their  skirts ;  with  a  bit  of  court-plaster, 
shaped  like  a  star,  a  crescent  or  even  a  coach  and 
horses,  placed  near  the  left  corner  of  their  mouths, 
contributed  the  graciousness  of  their  presence.  The 
gallantry  of  Colonial  days  was  at  its  height,  and  the 
young  man  did  not  feel  neglected  should  he  be  com- 
pelled to  tiptoe  for  a  glimpse  of  the  notable  digni- 
taries as  they  moved  in  the  minuet,  or  the  courtly 
grace  with  which  they  escorted  the  ladies  to  a  seat. 

So  the  prevailing  decorum  forced  the  "  Squire  " 
to  the  center  of  interest,  and  what  came  about  in 
consequence  was  attended  by  no  lack  of  modesty  on 
his  part. 

He  had  been  explaining  to  some  friends  of  his 
patrician  environment  that  the  rythmical  cadence  in 
music  descends  with  the  ascent  of  formality,  and  that 
he  knew  no  better  illustration  than  a  comparison  of 
the  dance  of  that  evening  with  the  "  jig  "  of  his  own 
slaves.  As  he  said  this  his  plebeian  birth  was  in 
evidence  through  an  involuntary  movement  of  one 
foot.  This  did  not  pass  without  observation,  and 
not  that  the  spirit  of  revelry  was  subsiding,  for  it 
was  at  its  height,  but  through  the  wileful  pleadings 
of  the  ladies  and  the  tantalizing  clamor  of  the  men, 
the  "  Squire's "  consent  was  forced  that  he  give  a 
practical  demonstration  of  his  theory  as  to  this  de- 
cadence in  time,  and  do  the  jig.  Simultaneously 
they  receded,  leaving  him  alone  in  the  center  of  the 
floor;  and  the  musicians,  taking  their  cue,  began  a 


ARLINGTON  91 

familiar  hornpipe,  whereupon  the  ever  resourceful 
"  Squire  "  took  up  the  rhythm  with  his  feet. 

The  drivers  and  servants  were  out  back  of  the 
house  drowsily  awaiting  the  termination  of  festivi- 
ties. Like  the  click  of  a  gun  lock  to  a  well-trained 
dog,  so  the  change  of  music  fell  upon  their  ears ; 
and  instantly  alert,  they  made  for  the  house  to  listen. 
Here  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet  sent  them  up  a  trellis 
just  outside  the  window,  to  see. 

Round  went  the  "  Squire  "  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  soul.  His  thin  hair  fell  in  strings  over  his 
face.  His  white  silk  vest  began  to  crawl,  showing 
the  waistband  of  his  trousers^  and  the  starch  in  his 
linen  was  rapidly  wilting.  "  Terpsichorean  feet " 
was  no  undeserved  comment,  for  he  was  displaying 
remarkable  agility  for  one  short  and  fat.  The  din 
of  laughter  had  subsided  into  stilled  admiration,  and 
there  was  the  hush  that  precedes  genuine  sponta- 
neous applause. 

One  of  the  negroes  perched  on  a  trellis  had  reached 
the  high-pressure  point,  and  unfortunately  let  out 
a  gurgling  laugh  that  was  heard  inside.  The 
"  Squire,"  who  was  only  waiting  an  opportunity  to 
terminate  the  dance,  sprang  to  the  window  and 
thrust  out  his  head.  There  was  a  sudden  disturb- 
ance of  equilibrium,  and  down  went  the  trellis  with 
a  crash.  The  breathless,  overheated  "  Squire  "  was 
struck  by  a  small  falling  timber,  but  it  was  enough. 
He  staggered  back  and  sank  into  a  chair.  This  pre- 
cipitated sudden  action  among  the  guests,  some  going 
to  the  "  Squire's  "  assistance,  others  hurrying  out 


92  TAMAM 

to  seek  an  explanation.  In  the  confusion  a  light 
was  overturned,  setting  fire  to  some  window  hang- 
ings, which,  however,  were  quickly  torn  down  and 
extinguished.  A  roughened  moulding  on  the  near 
side  of  the  far  window  in  the  north  parlor,  to-day, 
bears  evidence  of  the  historical  accuracy  of  this 
narrative. 

The  sequel  to  this  series  of  accidents  was  deliv- 
ered, the  Sunday  following,  in  the  form  of  an  un- 
expected thrust.  Most  of  that  evening's  assem- 
blage were  parishioners  at  the  fashionable  Christ 
Church  in  Alexandria.  Now  their  venerable  rector 
had  many  times  looked  down  into  the  face  of  Wash- 
ington, from  his  lofty  pulpit,  though,  as  a  matter 
of  history  and  contrary  to  the  prevailing  impres- 
sion, the  General's  name  was  not  on  the  official 
church  list  of  his  parishioners,  but  was  attached  to 
that  of  Pohick  Church,  a  small  log  structure  about 
midway  between  Mount  Vernon  and  Alexandria.  Be- 
cause of  this  fact  the  rector  doubtless  nursed  per- 
sonal jealousies,  and  it  was  no  secret  that  he  looked 
askance  on  the  tendency  of  decorum  in  the  new  social 
center. 

On  the  Sunday  in  question  the  pews  at  Christ 
Church  were  occupied  by  their  accustomed  holders. 
This  was  before  the  quaint  old-fashioned  church  had 
become  modernized.  The  backs  of  the  seats  had  not 
been  cut  lower,  and  a  larger  pulpit  stood  nearer  the 
ceiling  to  enable  the  rector  to  see  into  the  pews. 
This  pulpit  was  reached,  though  with  some  difficulty, 


ARLINGTON  93 

by  a  small  winding  stair  resembling  the  modern  fire- 
escape.  Owing  to  this,  and  the  insufficiency  of  other 
arrangements,  it  was  the  rector's  custom  to  ascend 
prior  to  the  assembling  of  his  parishioners.  The  size 
of  the  pulpit  permitted  him  to  work,  unseen,  when 
necessary  to  add  the  finishing  touches  of  a  sermon. 

It  is  assumed  the  rector  had  prepared  his  usual 
"  stock  sermon  "  for  that  week,  but  upon  hearing  of 
the  narrow  escape  from  catastrophe  and  the 
"  Squire's "  assured  recovery,  felt  called  upon  to 
select  a  new  and  more  fitting  text. 

The  pewholders  were  themselves  conscious  of  an 
inner  feeling  of  gratitude  and,  in  a  subdued  state 
of  mind,  patiently  awaited  the  beginning  of  the  serv- 
ice, which  was  at  all  times  irregular. 

Patience,  like  virtue,  is  supposed  to  have  its  re- 
ward, and  the  amount  displayed  that  day  bore  prom- 
mise  of  abundant  "  food  for  thought." 

One  of  the  "  pillars  "  left  his  customary  seat  at 
the  foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs  to  whisper  to  another 
"  pillar."  They  looked  at  the  "  fire-escape,"  and 
evidently  decided  it  was  easier  to  go  to  the  rector's 
house,  for  they  quietly  took  up  their  hats.  The  pa- 
rishioners, misinterpreting  their  motive,  arose,  filling 
the  silence  with  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet. 

The  location  of  the  pulpit  was  not  conducive  to 
coolness,  and  the  unusual  degree  of  fervor  in  the 
rector  that  day  had  resulted  in  the  loosening  of  his 
stock,  the  opening  of  his  shirt  front  and  the  comb- 
ing of  his  long  heavy  hair  through  his  fingers.  So 
completely  engrossed  was  he  in  the  finishing  touches 


94  TAMAM 

of  a  hurriedly  remodeled  sermon,  that  he  had  become 
oblivious  to  the  time  or  the  stage  of  the  service. 
When  the  sound  of  the  moving  audience  attracted  his 
attention,  he  instantly  arose,  simultaneously  reading 
the  text,  "  I  am  the  rose  of  Sharon,  the  lily-of-the- 
valley,  the  fairest  of  ten  thousand."  After  the  audi- 
ence was  again  seated,  he  explained  this  claim  was 
not  made  in  the  sense  of  pride  in  personal  beauty, 
but  that  one  mission  of  the  Saviour  was  to  afford  a 
living  example  which  the  Father  chose  to  manifest 
in  Him ;  and  the  lily-of-the-valley  meant  of  the 
world ;  that  every  valley  had  its  lily,  and  that  the 
illustration  could  be  brought  home  by  looking  for 
the  lily  of  the  Potomac  valley,  which,  in  his  humble 
belief,  was  to  be  found  in  the  life  of  the  great  Patriot, 
not  long  dead.  He  pleaded  for  adherence  to  those 
precepts  of  the  Potomac  lily,  claimed  that  divine 
manifestations  of  disapproval  were  as  possible  to-day 
as  at  any  time  in  history,  and  in  conclusion  asked 
them  to  take  home  the  thought  given  in  the  one  hun- 
dred and  sixth  Psalm,  eighteenth  verse :  "  And  a  fire 
was  kindled  in  their  company." 

It  is  not  known  if  the  sermon  deterred  many  from 
subsequent  visits  to  Arlington,  but  it  is  known  that 
during  convalescence  the  "  Squire  "  sat  in  the  door- 
way of  his  "  office,"  playing  those  same  tunes  which 
made  the  darkies'  feet  light. 

Arlington  and  its  master  filled  the  important  posi- 
tion of  social  gateway.  If  either  stratum  of  the 
social  world  felt  the  need  of  the  other,  this  was  the 
shortest  route. 


ARLINGTON  95 

Though  not  of  importance,  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able the  present-day  political  campaign  method  can 
be  found  to  have  originated  at  the  "  Squire's  "  home. 
It  was  his  long-time  custom  to  have  the  neighbors 
and  their  friends  come  once  a  year  to  judge  of  his 
stock,  with  particular  reference  to  the  new  strains. 
In  the  natural  course  of  events  he  invited  them  to 
bring  their  stock  for  comparison,  which  resulted  in 
the  offering  of  premiums  by  himself.  This  led  to 
an  increase  in  attendance,  which  in  turn  led  to  the 
delight  of  the  "  Squire." 

It  is  easy  to  believe  the  wily  political  aspirant  took 
advantage  of  such  an  opportunity  to  be  present,  on 
the  "  Squire's  "  open  invitation,  and  do  a  little  hand- 
shaking. And  if  his  predilection  was  volubility,  he 
could  doubtless  get  himself  invited  to  make  the 
awards,  which  gave  opportunity  for  a  "  stump " 
speech ;  in  fact,  one  that  would  undoubtedly  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  applause  of  his  innocent  host. 

To-day  the  great  need  in  every  community  is  an 
Arlington  and  its  "  Squire,"  for  who  can  neither 
teach  nor  learn  the  lessons  of  bland  innocence  of 
self-aggrandizement  and  unsophisticated  purpose, 
that  are  delineated  in  those  we  call  the  "  lower 
strata." 

Functions  at  Arlington  were  as  diversified  as  the 
colors  in  Joseph's  coat,  and  the  genius  of  the 
"  Squire  "  was  a  standing  guarantee  as  to  their  suc- 
cess. Even  in  "  coon  "-hunt  parties  he  had  been 
known  to  have  a  pet  "  coon  "  secretly  led  around 
through  the  woodlands,  and  then  tied  up  in  a  tree. 


96  TAMAM 

The  excited  guests  would  follow  the  dogs,  on  its  trail, 
and  arrive  at  the  tree,  breathless,  whereupon  the 
"  Squire  "  would  send  a  negro  up,  ostensibly  to  shake 
it  out.  Amidst  the  yelping  of  dogs  and  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  guests,  the  man  would  come  down  with 
the  "  coon  "  in  his  arms. 

One  evening  the  laugh  was  on  the  "  Squire,"  and 
no  one  joined  in  more  heartily  than  himself. 

The  woodlands  of  Arlington  had  long  been  fa- 
mous as  a  roosting-place  for  crows.  The  passing 
of  the  crow  is  like  unto  that  of  the  buffalo,  which 
used  to  exist  in  such  numbers  that  they  blackened  the 
plains.  So  the  flocks  of  crows  used  to  be  of  such 
proportions  that  they  blackened  the  sky.  One  never 
wearied  of  sitting  in  the  open,  toward  the  close  of 
day,  watching  the  heavy-winged  flight  of  the  tired 
birds  on  their  way  to  roost.  The  line  extended  far 
as  the  eye  could  see.  You  would  never  see  the  be- 
ginning nor  the  end.  There  were  always  crows  in 
the  sky,  and  toward  evening  they  began  to  move  in 
the  same  direction,  getting  thicker  as  the  daylight 
weakened,  being  thickest  about  dusk,  and  still  flying 
when  the  light  had  so  faded  they  were  no  longer  visi- 
ble. In  every  direction  these  lines  could  be  seen 
bearing  toward  Arlington. 

Crows  are  indigenous  to  good  soil,  and,  like  the 
negroes  of  the  "  Squire,"  the  Arlington  crow  was  dis- 
tinguished by  his  black,  sleek,  glossy,  and  well-kept 
condition. 

A  favorite  pastime  of  the  negroes  was  to  shoot 
into  the  roosting-trees.  There  would  follow  a  tre- 


ARLINGTON  97 

mendous  whirr  of  wings,  and  as  though  night  itself 
were  in  flight,  the  black  cloud  would  rise  from  the 
tree  and  hover  over  another  before  settling,  like  a 
thick  and  smothering  blanket. 

The  "  Squire  "  had  taken  some  guests  out  to  shoot 
into  the  roosts.  It  takes  skill  to  get  near  a  flock  of 
crows,  even  when  they  are  sleeping. 

The  "  Squire  "  selected  a  large,  dead-top  oak,  upon 
whose  branches  many  black  bunches  could  be  seen  in 
outline  against  the  heavens.  With  much  care  the 
party  had  crawled  through  wet  grass,  and  were  un- 
usually successful  in  getting  under  the  tree  without 
a  single  crow  having  given  the  alarm.  At  the 
"  Squire's  "  command,  all  blazed  away,  sending  a 
perfect  hail  of  slugs  and  shot,  and  in  return  received 
a  rain  of  mistletoe,  while  never  a  crow  was  in  the 
tree. 

This  period  of  Arlington's  history  is  but  the  his- 
tory of  the  "  Squire,"  and  so  on  we  could  trace 
through  the  three  score  and  ten  years  of  his  life. 
The  plebeian  in  his  blood  never  disappeared,  and 
when  in  his  declining  years  he  suffered  the  common 
fate  of  all  who  grow  old,  finding  himself  replaced  by 
those  of  more  vigor  and  youth,  he  built  an  exten- 
sion to  his  wharf  in  the  form  of  a  dancing  platform. 
When  merry  picnickers  would  land  to  spread  their 
lunch  by  the  side  of  Arlington's  famous  spring  there 
would  be  seen  coming  down  the  hill  a  short,  white- 
haired,  red-nosed,  lonely  man  with  a  fiddle  under  his 
arm.  If  they  no  longer  came  to  him,  he  would  go 
to  them. 


98  TAMAM 

To-day  there  stands,  far  down  toward  the 
"  greensward,"  an  unkept,  old-fashioned  monument, 
the  existence  of  which  is  not  even  known  to  those 
thousands  of  visitors  who  pass.  If  you  scratch  off 
the  lichens,  you  can  read : 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  PARKE  CUSTIS 
Born  April  30,  1781. 
Died  Oct.  10,  1857. 

On  another  side  is  the  usual  absurdly  inappro- 
priate scriptural  quotation.  There  is  nothing  to 
show  that  you  stand  by  the  grave  of  the  sweet-na- 
tured,  unselfish,  cultured,  simple  master  of  the  great 
home  in  its  halcyon  days. 

The  death  of  the  "  Squire  "  was  the  dawn  of  a 
new  day  in  Arlington's  history.  His  only  child,  and 
heir,  had  some  years  before  become  the  wife  of  a 
brilliant  young  officer.  Around  the  new  master 
clustered  a  galaxy  of  official  dignity  that  must  have 
brought  a  smile  of  approval  to  the  spirit  of  Wash- 
ington. He  was  all  that  is  courtly,  gracious,  and 
gentle,  yet  stern  and  unrelenting.  His  face,  though 
strongly  masculine,  was  radiantly  beautiful,  and  his 
soulful  expression  awoke  one's  tenderest  emotions, 
yet  you  were  held  in  awe  by  the  almost  cold  dignity 
of  his  manner.  He  was  all  that  the  most  cherished 
hope  of  Washington  could  have  realized  for  his 
adopted  posterity,  and  we  like  to  think  of  him  as 
an  actual  lineal  descendant  of  our  first  and  most 
aristocratic  President.  In  truth  he  is  the  nearest, 


ARLINGTON  99 

even  though  but  the  son-in-law  of  the  great  patriot's 
step-grandson,  and  son  by  adoption. 

In  the  new  day,  fox-hunts  and  syncopated  music 
were  relegated  to  the  negroes ;  not  that  the  new  mas- 
ter disapproved  such  things,  but  as  the  delightful, 
informal,  loving  freshness  of  youth  must  eventually 
give  way  to  the  dignity  of  maturity,  so  was  Arling- 
ton becoming  of  age. 

While  the  new  master  had  no  plebeian  blood, 
neither  had  he  an  aversion  for  it ;  and  the  fact  that  the 
merinos  were  now  intrusted  to  the  overseer  was  owing 
to  the  master's  being  a  most  active  officer  in  his  coun- 
try's service,  and  spending  little  time  at  home.  But 
when  he  was  there  the  functions  were  even  more 
notable  than  in  earlier  days.  If  the  guests  were  not 
met  at  the  carriage  by  the  host,  as  in  the  days  of 
yore,  they  were  received  in  the  parlors  with  superb 
dignity,  and  the  seriousness  in  the  ever  sad  face  of 
the  host  left  one  imbued  with  a  high  sense  of  their 
own  self-respect. 

While  the  new  master,  like  all  men  of  serious  pur- 
poses, encouraged  no  intimacies,  yet  he  cherished  the 
esteem  and  friendship  of  all. 

Among  those  numbered  as  near  friends  was  a  cer- 
tain lieutenant,  perhaps  so  through  association,  as 
he  had  served  in  a  subordinate  capacity.  This  lieu- 
tenant had  many  times  accepted  of  the  hospitality 
at  Arlington,  and  it  is  believed  he  is  not  the  only 
one  who,  after  pacing  in  solitude  the  portico  of  the 
mansion  and  looking  down  upon  the  natural  beauty 
before  him,  felt  the  birth  of  jealousy  in  his  breast. 


100  TAMAM 

Scarce  time  had  the  host  for  indulgence  in  the 
thought  that  he  might  have  folded  a  serpent  to  his 
bosom. 

The  serious  sadness  in  the  new  master's  face  proved 
to  be  a  reflection  of  the  first  sorrowful  brewings  of  a 
nation's  distress.  In  the  line  of  duty  he  had  been 
sent  to  Harper's  Ferry  to  arrest  a  violent  abolition- 
ist movement.  This  scarcely  preceded  the  secession 
of  seven  States  and  the  President's  call  for  volunteers. 
At  the  height  of  this  excitement  Arlington's  master 
went  home  to  enter  upon  a  struggle  with  his  con- 
science. 

He  studied  the  oath  he  had  taken,  as  an  officer, 
and  his  obligation  to  the  Union,  which  embodied  the 
height  of  his  ambition ;  but  a  lurking  call  in  his  heart 
would  not  be  pacified.  He  was  in  the  Union  through 
the  instrumentality  of  his  own  State's  existence  as 
a  unit.  It  was  not  his  option  to  take  part  in  the 
direction  of  his  State's  policy.  He  came  out  of  the 
struggle,  guided  by  the  dictates  of  a  pure  conscience, 
resolved  to  accept  the  mandate  of  his  State  as  para- 
mount. 

Virginia  had  not  then  seceded,  but  only  through 
the  inborn  patriotism  of  its  people  had  wiser  counsel 
delayed  the  movement  which,  to  all,  was  inevitable. 
In  the  agony  of  this  suspense  Satan  took  the  master 
upon  a  high  hill  and,  showing  him  the  beauties  be- 
low, said,  "  Bow  down  before  me,  and  all  these 
things  are  yours."  For  President  Lincoln  unknow- 
ingly played  the  role  of  Satan  when  he  offered  the 
command  of  the  Union  armies  to  Arlington's  master. 


ARLINGTON  101 

Almost  simultaneously  Virginia  had  cast  her  lot 
with  the  seceding  States. 

It  is  idle  to  speculate  as  to  the  inability  of  one, 
in  calm  judgment,  to  have  been  able  to  foretell  the 
outcome  of  the  secession  movement,  and  no  one  knew 
this  better  than  the  master  of  Arlington.  When  the 
time  for  action  came,  he  declined  the  command,  ac- 
companying it  with  his  resignation  as  an  officer  in 
the  service  of  the  Union.  Taking  his  family,  he  left 
Arlington  in  charge  of  the  overseer,  and  the  new  day 
had  closed. 

When  distress  is  brewing,  action  is  not  far  distant, 
in  a  people  like  ours,  in  whose  ancestry  was  the 
"  spirit  of  '76."  And  never  in  the  history  of  the 
world  was  there  a  people  who  more  unswervingly 
abided  by  the  dictates  of  their  conscience,  and  were 
more  justly  entitled  to  the  arbitrament  of  arms,  than 
they  who  fought  in  the  cause  of  the  North  and  of  the 
South.  So  it  was  not  long  before  they  came  to- 
gether on  the  field  of  Manassas.  This  terrible  battle 
resulted  in  the  Union  forces  falling  back  and  en- 
trenching on  the  heights  of  Arlington,  and  there  was 
the  dawn  of  a  new  era  in  Arlington's  history. 

The  master  had  become  the  Confederacy's  chief- 
tain and  the  sting  of  defeat  in  the  opening  action 
festered  in  the  hearts  of  the  defeated.  Through  this 
we  find  a  palliative  for  our  own  kindred  having  con- 
verted the  contents  of  the  mansion,  which  comprised 
some  of  the  most  precious  personal  relics  of  Wash- 
ington, to  their  private  use  through  the  channels 
of  common  loot.  The  dismantled  mansion  was  again 


TAMAM 

filled  with  people,  but  the  rooms  resounded  with  the 
gruff  voices  of  soldiers. 

Arlington  became  an  important  base,  and  later 
on,  a  much-needed  hospital;  for  the  carnage  of  war, 
always  fearful,  is  never  more  so  than  when  brothers 
meet. 

A  certain  lieutenant,  who  in  previous  years  had 
paced  the  portico  in  solitude  while  the  house  re- 
sounded with  wit  and  laughter,  again  paced,  in  soli- 
tude, the  same  portico,  though  now  in  the  garb  of 
master.  He  was  a  Quartermaster-General  and  in 
charge  of  the  Arlington  camp. 

There  is  a  chronicle,  though  now  practically  ex- 
tinct, which  was  inscribed  by  the  pen  of  one  bearing 
the  delightful  Scotch  appellation  Angus  McSween. 
The  authenticity  of  this  chronicle  was  never  ques- 
tioned. The  Chronicler  quotes  a  certain  command- 
ing quartermaster,  in  an  impulsive  statement  ad- 
dressed to  President  Lincoln,  on  the  occasion  of  one 
of  the  President's  visits  to  the  camp: 

"  Lee  shall  never  return  to  Arlington.  No  matter 
what  the  issue  of  the  war  may  be,  the  arch  rebel  shall 
never  again  enjoy  the  possession  of  these  beautiful 
estates." 

We  can  picture  the  sad  face  of  the  pure-hearted 
President.  There  must  have  been  a  smile,  not  the 
smile  of  iniquity,  but  a  timid  smile  of  tender  com- 
passion for  a  man  whose  heart  could  harbor  such  a 
thought. 

The  Quartermaster-General  found  conciliation  in 


ARLINGTON  103 

the  rapid  filling  of  the  national  cemeteries,  and  as- 
sumed authority  to  direct  interments  at  Arlington, 
the  first  of  which  were  made  under  his  personal  super- 
vision, on  the  garden  terrace  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  house.  The  act  was  sanctioned,  and  there 
goes  without  question  the  motive  of  the  trusting 
President,  who  believed  no  man  would  intentionally 
wrong  another. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  the  beautiful  wood- 
lands were  fertile  with  the  life-blood  of  a  nation,  and 
the  paths  were  silent. 

Arlington,  was  your  bosom  consecrated  to  this 
high  service  through  the  noblest  motive  in  man? 
Was  the  scene  of  laughter  and  sunshine  changed  to 
silence  and  shades  that  you  might  serve  to  the  better 
end?  Born  again  as  you  are,  and  faithful  in  your 
trust,  is  your  voice  forever  stilled  in  the  mystery  of 
your  conception? 


There  were  others  who  came  together  in  the  shades 
of  Arlington,  long  after  the  posthumous  daughter 
had  left  the  "  Unknown  Tomb "  in  her  burst  of 
emotion.  There  were  some  who  came  together,  else- 
where, and  better  had  it  been  ill  the  shade,  for  they 
brought  life  only.  Depleted  physically,  by  the 
scourage  of  fevers  through  which  they  had  passed, 
theirs  was  neither  the  glory  of  a  soldier's  death  nor 
that  which  goes  with  an  empty  sleeve.  They  were 
trembling  in  spirit  and  flesh,  subjects  only  for  tender 


104  TAMAM 

sympathies  and  gentle  hands.  Later  on  their  cup 
of  sorrow  was  to  overflow  when  they  would  be  in- 
valided out  of  the  service. 

Many  who  went  with  the  vigor  of  health  and  pur- 
pose, winning  to  their  credit  deeds  of  courage  and 
valor,  standing  fast,  from  the  opening  to  the  closing 
of  hostilities,  saw  their  comrades  march  home  in 
glory  and  leave  them  to  withstand,  single-handed, 
the  siege  of  fever.  After  convalescence  they  were 
to  struggle  in,  one  by  one,  with  no  martial  feeling  of 
pride,  but  a  feeling  akin  to  that  of  strangeness  at 
the  sight  of  their  own  shadow. 

And  so  came  one  who  had  held  himself  in  ready 
training,  whose  steadfastness  of  purpose  had  de- 
veloped him  into  full  flower  at  the  time  of  his  coun- 
try's need. 

As  the  flower  of  an  army  is  at  front  in  advance 
and  at  rear  in  retreat,  so  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  such  as 
he  to  be  the  last  to  return  after  the  termination  of 
hostilities.  It  was  during  this  delay,  and  the  conse- 
quent relaxation,  that  the  delirium  of  fever  and  its 
host  of  allied  complications  laid  a  siege  which  taxed 
the  mettle  of  his  well-rounded  constitution.  The  hos- 
pital record  shows  a  desperate  encounter,  a  tenacious 
resistance  and  victorious  stand  for  the  beleaguered 
one.  The  long  convalescence  brought  about  a 
change  in  his  nature.  That  stern  veneering,  with 
which  to  cover  himself  he  had  worked  so  unrelent- 
ingly, disappeared,  and  he  had  neither  heart  nor 
strength  to  again  undertake  the  task. 

After  a  placid  review  of  his  sacrifice  of  the  golden 


ARLINGTON  105 

years  of  his  life,  he  went  back  to  take  up  the 
thread  where  he  had  dropped  it,  more  than  ten  years 
before. 

The  active  principle  of  vitality  is  something  dif- 
ficult to  comprehend.  When  the  broad-chested,  full- 
blooded  man  succumbs  at  the  prime  of  life,  and  the 
pale-faced,  shriveled  weakling  reaches  a  ripe  old 
age,  we  naturally  ask,  how  is  it?  When  we  find 
people  who  have  health  and  bad  habits,  and  others 
who  have  neither,  we  wish  to  know  wherein  lies  the 
virtue  of  temperance?  We  know  that  women  of 
hysterical  tendencies  have  remained  composed  in  the 
face  of  disaster,  when  strong  men  resort  to  inhuman 
desperation.  Those  most  robust  can  least  bear  the 
rack  of  pain.  They  who  have  never  known  a  sor- 
row are  the  first  to  fall  when  overtaken.  When  we 
find  such  incongruities  existing,  the  best  explanation 
is  that  which  is  most  abstruse.  And  that  which  con- 
veys least  to  clear  up  these  physiological  enigmas  in- 
volves the  use  of  emotional  natures. 

The  posthumous  daughter  characterized  all  that 
was  wholesome  and  well-balanced.  It  could  be  said 
she  was  of  good  poise,  which  implies  control  of  an 
abundance  of  emotion.  No  sorrow  had  hovered  near 
her  life,  and  the  taste  of  anguish  was  unknown.  But 
the  sting  of  Arlington's  flower  had  pierced  deep,  and 
when  she  left  the  "  Unknown  "  tomb,  she  husbanded 
her  strength  that  she  might  reach  the  privacy  of  her 
own  room. 

Next  morning  found  her  with  flushed  face  and  an 
unusual  brilliancy  in  the  eyes.  The  flush  increased, 


106  TAMAM 

the  breathing  quickened,  and  by  night  the  fever  was 
higher.  The  physician's  remark  about  too  much 
gayety  made  her  smile,  in  the  thought  that  her  secret 
was  not  known.  She  rallied  quickly,  but  there  had 
been  time  enough  to  think. 

What  priceless  hours  are  those  which,  in  our  weak- 
ness, we  devote  to  plans  for  action  in  our  returning 
strength.  Through  the  time  of  convalescence  we 
can  inspect  our  inactive  mechanism,  detect  its  weak- 
ened parts,  and  many  times  emerge  with  a  remodeled 
life. 

We  can  picture  her  resting  in  the  quiet  and  soft- 
ened light  of  her  room.  What  was  her  purpose? 
What  was  her  future?  It  is  the  normal  intent  of 
every  woman  to  be  a  wife,  though  through  the 
peculiar  machinations  of  destiny  Nature  is  at  times 
baffled  and  some  of  the  highest  prizes  in  the  lottery 
of  life  are  never  drawn.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  she 
dwelt  on  the  thought  of  spinster  loneliness,  for  Na- 
ture has  a  compensating  pendulum,  and  every  spins- 
ter believes  she  became  so  through  a  higher  motive 
in  her  destiny. 

She  knew,  when  on  that  evening  she  had  laughed 
in  his  face  of  seriousness,  it  was  because  of  her 
weakness;  for  at  the  time  she  was  just  as  conscious 
of  being  in  his  power  as  she  was  of  his  being  in  hers. 
The  laugh,  like  bravado,  was  an  only  defense.  So, 
on  through  these  years  she  had  waited  his  return, 
some  day,  she  knew  not  when,  nor  had  she  particu- 
larly cared.  Waiting  had  been  her  unconscious 
purpose  in  life.  Now  if  she  allowed  herself  to  believe 


ARLINGTON  107 

anything  regarding  him,  that  purpose  had  been 
frustrated  through  his  death.  She  withstood  that 
thought,  and  sought  assurance  from  her  inability  to 
confirm  it,  but  dared  not  trust  the  assurance.  She 
would  seek  a  new  and  living  purpose.  It  was  plain 
to  her  he  had  taken  up  a  new  purpose  since  that 
evening,  and  further,  that  she  had  been  the  immedi- 
ate cause  of  the  change  in  his  course.  She  felt  con- 
fident any  other  affinity  in  her  life  could  not  be  a 
true  one.  There  was  some  consolation  in  the  thought 
that  if  she  had  displayed  weakness  by  laughter,  he 
displayed  the  same  by  petulance,  as  there  had  been 
no  true  reason  for  assuming  her  pretended  indiffer- 
ence was  genuine.  She  endeavored  to  call  to  mind 
that  in  his  long  absence  she  had  not  particularly 
missed  him,  that  she  found  about  the  same  in  life, 
during  that  time,  as  in  the  years  of  his  friendship. 
But  an  inner  whispering  hinted  this  indifference  was 
when  she  expected  his  eventual  return.  So  the  longer 
he  postponed  coming,  the  more  she  determined  to  re- 
taliate by  a  formal  coolness  in  her  welcome,  though 
the  stimulus  of  this  thought  no  longer  more  than 
sufficed. 

When  he  had  changed  his  purpose  the  new  one 
admitted  of  the  most  drastic  consecration  of  person- 
ality. It  left  no  room  in  life  for  the  individual  self, 
only  an  ever  readiness  for  summons  to  duty,  and  in 
which  there  could  be  nothing  subserving  to  his  ulti- 
mate happiness.  He  had  written  that  he  looked  for 
reward  in  the  steadfastness  of  purpose.  Why  could 
not  she,  herself,  look  for  a  similar  reward?  If  a  man 


108  TAMAM 

can  seek  one  of  the  most  difficult  routes  on  the  chart 
of  life,  follow  it  through  darkness  and  storm,  in  the 
knowledge  that  there  is  no  haven  at  the  end,  and 
steering  by  the  one  beacon,  steadfastness  of  purpose, 
cannot  a  woman  do  the  same? 

She  recalled  the  dramatic  effect  of  her  response 
when,  upon  a  certain  occasion,  having  been  chided 
for  her  espousement  of  the  "  Lost  Cause,"  she  had 
replied,  "  If  my  father  could  die  for  it,  I  can  live  for 
it."  So  why  should  she  not  live  for  a  purpose?  By 
what  course  should  she  steer  to  avoid  calms?  Where 
does  the  tempest  of  life  rage  highest?  Where  is  the 
chart  least  defined?  What  is  there  which  calls  for 
woman's  every  action  that  offers  most  in  opportu- 
nity and  least  in  reward,  where  rest  is  found  in  doing, 
and  hope  only  in  the  unselfish  adherence  to  purpose 
without  end? 

The  world  can  be  said  to  consist  of  two  classes : 
those  who  have  purpose  and  those  who  have  not ;  and 
in  either  class  are  to  be  found  all  conditions  of 
society.  There  are  those  continually  inert,  and  those 
continually  active,  all  equally  devoid  of  purpose. 
Purpose  is  dependent  neither  upon  luxuries  nor  the 
necessities  of  life.  It  is  no  more  accelerated  by  suc- 
cess than  it  is  retarded  by  failure.  The  love  and 
protection  we  have  and  provide  for  our  dependents  is 
instinct,  and  goes  with  its  price,  affection.  The 
part  we  play  in  upbuilding  society  is  duty,  the  price 
we  owe.  Beyond  instinct  and  duty  is  the  purpose  of 
our  creation  into  the  highest  order  of  intellect,  and 
the  world  advances  upon  the  addition  of  each  recruit 


ARLINGTON  109 

into  the  ranks  of  those  who  seek  this  purpose.  The 
advance  is  maintained  only  by  those  who  remain 
steadfast. 

The  posthumous  daughter  came  from  her  con- 
valescence a  remodeled  woman.  The  wonderful  light 
that  had  dwelt  in  those  blue  eyes  was  more  of  a  soul- 
ful mellow  tint.  The  flower,  once  in  the  face  of  her 
youth,  was  again  flushed  to  the  burst  of  a  full- 
bloom  rose.  Her  normally  vigorous  features  were 
shrunken  to  the  proportions  of  exquisite  Dresden 
china.  The  mellifluence  of  her  speech  was  colored 
with  the  tinge  of  serious  sadness.  She  seemed  happy 
to  the  point  of  ecstasy.  She  had  sought  her  purpose 
and  the  world  advanced. 

It  was  through  no  spirit  of  defiance  to  the  laws 
of  nature,  but  from  a  critical  analysis  of  "  the  most 
in  opportunity  and  least  in  reward,"  that  she  entered 
upon  the  work  of  nurse  in  a  charity  hospital. 


At  Arlington  the  sexton  makes  an  early  round, 
every  day,  to  gather  up  the  wilted  flowers  that  were 
fresh  in  life  and  love  when  placed  there  the  day 
before. 

The  grave  is  no  place  for  wilted  flowers.  We 
want  to  leave  them  in  their  freshness  and  fragrance, 
and  not  find  them  when  we  come  again,  but  feel  that 
the  timid  spirit  of  our  dear  one  has  breathed  them 
in. 

What  is  more  indescribably  beautiful  than  a  flower 
in  the  splendor  of  its  freshness?  What  is  more  em- 


110  TAMAM 

blematic  of  pathetic  woe  than  the  same  flower  when 
wilted  ? 

Nature's  teachings  are  always  by  contrast.  She 
shows  us  the  most  glorious  tints  and  magnificent 
coloring  in  her  skies,  not  to  be  followed  by  the  light 
of  day,  but  by  the  darkness  of  night.  She  makes 
the  dewdrop  sparkle  in  childish  innocence  and  the 
sea  storm  in  furious  threat,  the  one  but  the  multiple 
of  the  other.  We  find  fairy-like  grace,  ceaseless  ani- 
mation, gorgeous  raiment  and  the  joy  of  light  de- 
picted in  the  same  butterfly  whose  larva  was  the 
passive,  homely  and  slothful  worm  groveling  in  the 
damp  and  darkness. 

And  so  we  trust  our  heaviest  burdens  to  that 
carrier  most  frail  in  construction.  It  is  when  our 
emotion  must  speak,  and  yet  there  are  no  words,  that 
we  send  the  message  through  flowers.  It  is  when  our 
hearts  are  pining,  and  the  loneliness  weighs  heavily, 
that  we  seek  communion  through  flowers.  It  is  when 
we  would  appeal  to  the  guardian  spirit  of  our  des- 
tiny for  consolation  of  mind,  and  offer  sacrifice  that 
its  scent  may  rise  to  the  heavens  in  acceptable  fra- 
grance, that  we  offer  flowers.  It  is  when  we  would 
whisper  of  our  loneliness,  seek  comfort  in  the  com- 
mingling of  thought  and  memory  and  invoke  pity  on 
our  desertion,  that  we  place  flowers  on  the  graves 
of  those  who  were  dear  to  us  in  life.  It  is  through 
charity  that  the  sexton  makes  a  daily  round  to  re- 
move them.  Would  that  the  same  charity  could  be 
extended  to  the  living ! 

There  are  those  beautiful  in  the  bloom  of  youth; 


ARLINGTON  111 

but  the  cheek  will  fade,  the  brow  will  wrinkle,  the 
hair  will  frost,  and  no  one  comes  to  remove  the 
withered  flowers.  There  are  those  fresh  in  the  zenith 
of  pride  in  success ;  but  calamity  smothers  the  fresh- 
ness, the  friction  of  reverses  wilts  the  spirit,  and  who 
comes  to  remove  the  withered  flowers?  There  are 
those  gleaming  in  the  possession  of  a  new  born  hope, 
but  when  spotted  by  the  blight  of  disappointment  and 
mildewed  with  the  inactivity  of  a  stayed  ambition, 
why  are  the  withered  flowers  left?  There  are  those 
clothed  in  the  spotless  garment  of  chastity;  though 
when  the  triumph  of  creation  is  smirched  in  the  mire 
of  degradation,  and  the  delicate  flower  of  personal 
purity  wilts  in  remorse,  why  can  not  the  hand  of 
mercy  remove  the  withered  flowers  ? 

When  the  crest  of  life's  wave  has  rolled  by,  the 
buoyant  spirit  become  sodden  and  the  weight  of 
years  disturbs  the  footstep's  equilibrium,  why  will 
not  some  one  remove  the  bondage  of  withering  age 
ere  the  mortal  spirit  must  take  flight  from  its  shat- 
tered abode  ?  Why  did  not  Providence,  in  His  munifi- 
cence, give  us  a  sexton  for  the  living,  and  let  us 
awake  each  morning  to  find  the  witherings  from  the 
flower  of  a  past  day's  life  removed? 

If  the  flowers,  even  when  withered,  must  remain 
on  life,  can  not  we  preserve  them,  in  their  freshness, 
from  the  fiery  rays  of  strife  and  the  chilling  frosts 
of  indifference,  so  their  period  of  fragrance  may  be 
extended?  Can  not  we,  each  day,  freshen  the  cheek 
of  those  dear  to  us  with  the  aromatic  spirit  of  love, 
and  so  make  the  bloom  linger?  Can  not  we  remove 


113  TAMAM 

the  poison  from  our  darts  of  criticism  and  blunt  the 
point  of  our  foil,  that  in  the  parries  of  life  the  wound 
we  give  to  pride  will  cause  the  flower  to  wither  less 
quickly  ? 

When  hope  is  the  remnant  of  a  boundless  ambi- 
tion, when  it  becomes  the  food  of  a  hungry  soul, 
when  the  crest-fallen  float  on  the  sea  of  existence  by 
clinging  to  it,  can  we  not  leave  the  remnant  intact, 
can  we  not  spare  a  little  from  our  spice  of  life  to 
make  the  food  more  palatable,  can  we  not  breathe  a 
few  soft  words  to  inflate  the  vapid  life  raft,  and  so 
postpone  the  withering  of  the  flower?  If  the  gar- 
ment of  chastity,  though  long  steeped  in  the  cleans- 
ing power  of  contrition,  yet  retains  a  stain  and  the 
flower  must  wilt  in  isolation  beneath  the  pitiless  pelts 
of  censure,  can  we  not  let  him  who  is  without  sin 
among  us  cast  the  first  stone? 

There  is  a  little  flower  appropriately  called  the 
Immortelle,  owing  to  its  property  of  retaining 
shape  and  color  after  drying.  It  shows  a  delicate 
framework  of  rich  colors,  but  has  no  fragrance. 
There  is  another  little  shrub  called  the  Calycan- 
thus,  peculiar  in  that  its  flower  is  more  fragrant 
when  wilted. 

A  woman  devoid  of  the  charm  of  feminine  fra- 
grance is  very  unlike  one  possessing  this  characteris- 
tic. We  like  best  those  who  are  most  reliant,  most 
dependent,  most  susceptible  to  neglect,  who  have  least 
of  self-reliance.  In  the  frailness  of  their  structure 
man's  vigor  is  best  reflected. 

So  we  don't  care  for  the  Immortelle;  its  fadeless 


ARLINGTON  113 

nature  wears  on  us ;  there  is  no  contrast.  We  much 
prefer  the  Calycanthus  that  wilts  but  continues  to 
pervade  us  with  its  fragrance  long  after. 

When  the  hoary  frosts  of  age  are  resting  on  the 
brow,  and  they  who  in  the  even-tide  of  life  have  be- 
come matted  in  the  entanglement  of  accumulated 
witherings,  and  the  petals  are  so  dry  that  more  than 
a  breath  will  blow  them  from  the  corolla  of  existence, 
can  we  not  pause  for  a  moment  to  look  for  the 
colors  in  their  western  horizon  which  are  so  fast  fad- 
ing into  night?  Can  we  not  remember  that  true 
flowers  are  not  Immortelles,  and  so  draw  near  to 
detect  if  there  is  fragrance  in  the  witherings,  and  if, 
like  the  Calycanthus,  most  fragrant  when  most 
wilted  ? 

If  we  cease  in  our  own  desire  to  be  Immortelles, 
and  devote  more  energy  toward  sexton  charity,  we 
may  sooner  take  on  the  homely  hue  of  the  Calycan- 
thaceas,  but  then  we  will  have  their  fragrance. 

So  every  morning  the  faithful  old  sexton  at  Ar- 
lington makes  his  early  round,  and  it  is  tons  of 
withered  flowers  he  carries  away  each  year.  The 
bounty  of  his  harvest  comes  with  our  celebration  of 
the  National  Memorial  Day,  when  his  gatherings 
are  the  lifeless  carriers  in  the  annual  offering  of  our 
perennial  love.  On  this  day  the  clippings  from  every 
shrub  and  vine  throughout  the  nation  go  to  mingle 
their  fragrance  with  the  memory  of  our  soldier  dead. 
So  universally  recognized  is  the  custom  to  gather 
flowers  wherever  found,  that  the  dearth  of  them  the 
day  following  is  a  wonderful  object-lesson.  It  shows 


114  TAMAM 

us  how  it  looks  when  the  flowers  of  our  homes  are 
suddenly  gathered  in  at  the  nation's  call. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  days  that  a  flower  com- 
mittee had  clipped  its  resources  to  the  roots,  and 
there  was  yet  an  old-fashioned  garden  belonging  to 
an  old-fashioned  woman,  a  garden  which  probably 
never  had  a  pruning  knife  of  any  description  in  its 
midst.  There  was  a  jumble  of  honeysuckle,  a  group 
of  glaring  red  hollyhocks  that  appeared  to  be  walk- 
ing about  on  stilts,  and  a  snarl  of  wild  roses,  all 
combining  to  form  a  paradise  for  spiders  and  grass 
snakes.  The  poor  little  old  widowed  woman,  who 
had  fought  life's  battle,  single-handed,  since  early 
in  the  sixties,  was  generally  conceded  to  be  the  most 
unreconstructed  "  rebel,"  for  her  size,  of  the  time. 
So  the  flower  gatherers,  ever  zealous  in  their  harvest 
and  with  a  partly  filled  basket,  halted  at  her  gate  for 
consultation.  All  were  willing  to  brave  the  spiders 
and  snakes,  but  who  would  brave  the  little  old  woman 
to  ask  consent?  They  were  not  certain  she  even 
knew  of  the  existence  of  Memorial  Day,  but  were 
sure  she  had  never  been  in  any  national  cemetery. 
Should  they  merely  ask  for  the  flowers,  or  should 
they  reveal  their  true  purpose  and  openly  say  they 
were  to  go  on  the  graves  of  Federal  soldiers?  They 
finally  resolved  that  the  memory  of  heroes  should 
not  be  clothed  in  a  false  garb,  and  made  a  clean 
breast  of  their  intentions  to  the  widow.  A  twinkle's 
flash  filled  the  eyes  which  had  more  frequently  been 
filled  with  tears.  Could  she  believe  her  senses,  she 
who  had  waited  all  these  years  for  an  opportunity 


ARLINGTON  115 

to  avenge  the  death  of  her  husband  and  his  "  Lost 
Cause"?  She  must  verify  that  question. 

"  And  you  want  my  flowers  to  put  on  Yankee 
soldiers'  graves?  " 

The  committee  saw  that  they  had  exposed  an  un- 
protected flank,  and  determined  to  retire  under  the 
truce  of  frankness,  so  meekly  answered,  "  Yes." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  rising  to  the  height  of  her 
weazened  little  body,  and  spitting  out  the  words  as 
well  as  she  could  from  a  toothless  mouth,  "  take  'em, 
and  I  wish  you  had  ten  thousand  more  Yankee  graves 
out  there  to  decorate."  And  the  next  morning  the 
blooms  of  the  widow's  garden  were  among  the  with- 
erings  the  sexton  gathered  up  on  his  early  round. 

It  was  while  making  one  of  his  charity  rounds  the 
sexton  came  to  the  "  Unknown  "  tomb,  a  place  that 
generally  contributes  to  his  accumulations.  While 
raking  up  some  witherings,  he  observed  a  small  pocket 
note-book  which  seemed  to  have  fallen  the  day  before. 
He  read  the  name  and  address  which  was  printed  in 
gilt  letters  on  the  cover,  the  book  evidently  being  a 
gift.  Down  in  a  corner  was  the  word  "  Diary." 
With  no  more  than  a  moment's  hesitation  he  did  just 
what  any  other  man  would  have  done  under  like  cir- 
cumstances. He  put  it  in  his  pocket.  When  he  had 
returned  from  his  round  he  enclosed  the  book  in  an 
envelope  and  wrote  an  address,  identical  with  that 
in  the  gilt  letters  on  its  cover.  Had  he  not  been  a 
man  he  would  have  read: 


116  TAMAM 

"  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  I  found  you,  little 
book,  and  through  it  all  I  have  waited  for  your  owner 
to  come  and  get  you  and,  incidentally,  me.  Now  I 
would  not  say  that  aloud  for  worlds,  even  when  no 
one  was  within  hearing,  but  it  was  fun  to  write  it, 
and  since  I  have  adopted  you  and  intend  keeping  a 
diary,  it  has  to  stay.  Anyway,  this  is  not  to  be  a 
diary ;  that  word  sounds  commonplace.  It  is  to  be 
a  confidence-book,  and  if  I  can't  tell  my  confidence- 
book  everything,  what  is  the  use  of  having  one? 

"  Do  you  know,  little  confidence-book,  that  every 
night  before  I  go  to  bed  I  take  you  out,  and  look  at 
the  name  in  gilt  letters  on  your  cover,  kiss  you,  then 
say  my  prayers,  and  one  thing  I  always  add  is — no, 
I  don't  have  to  tell  even  my  confidence-book  what 
I  say  then.  But  it  is  something  nice,  and  I  think  he 
is  horrid,  for  he  has  not  so  much  as  written  a  note  to 
me  since  he  went  home  the  night  you  were  lost.  And 
he  did  not  stay  home,  either,  but  went  into  the  army, 
as  if  he  never  wanted  to  see  any  one  again. 

"  Who  would  say  '  yes '  the  first  time  she  was 
asked  anything?  And  do  you  know,  I  never  realized 
what  he  meant,  and  what  I  did,  until  next  morning. 
He  should  have  said,  '  Now  I  am  going  to  say  some- 
thing very  important,  something  that  I  long  ago 
decided  to  say  at  this  time,  something  that  I  am  go- 
ing to  offer ' — and  just  lots  of  other  somethings. 
Then  I  would  have  looked  down  and  picked  at  the 
hem  of  my  handkerchief,  and  have  been  silent  for  a 
long  time,  so  he  would  get  real  anxious  and  say  it 
again.  After  he  had  repeated  it,  I  would  have  been 


ARLINGTON  117 

silent  a  little  while  longer,  then  slowly  raise  my  eyes 
and  looking  straight  into  his  face,  say  what  an  honor 
I  consider  that  to  be ;  how  much  he  offers  for  so  little ; 
what  great  happiness  any  one  can  expect  who  shares 
his  life,  and  finally  ask  him  to  wait  while  I  strive  to 
become  more  worthy  of  his  love,  and  if  I  could  never 
become  so,  not  to  think  that  our  friendship  will  be' 
come  lessened. 

"  But  no,  he  did  so  differently,  and  asked  me  with- 
out showing  any  preliminary  symptoms.  I  can't 
remember  what  he  said,  but  I  know  it  was  no  little 
speech  like  they  say  in  stories.  And  so  I  had  to 
laugh  and  run  away.  That  night  I  felt  real  happy, 
and  went  to  sleep  thinking  that  the  next  time  he 
talked  that  way  I  would  not  laugh. 

"  It  was  next  morning  that  I  went  out  and  found 
you.  Of  course  I  didn't  expect  him  ever  to  ask  for 
you,  because  he  did  not  really  want  you.  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  man  keeping  a  diary  ?  He  kept  you  in  his 
pocket,  through  a  kind  of  appreciative  duty,  be- 
cause you  must  have  been  a  present,  but  he  never  told 
you  a  single  secret.  And  when  he  comes  again  he 
will  not  dare  refer  to  the  evening  you  were  lost,  so 
of  course  you  are  safely  mine.  Perhaps  some  day, 
a  long,  long  time  from  now,  it  may  be  I  can  tell 
him  I  found  his  little  book  and  scribbled  in  it,  and 
then  he  will  want  you. 

"  Little  confidence-book,  there  is  so  much  I  can 
not  tell  any  one  except  you.  You  are  the  only  thing 
I  have  that  he  ever  gave  to  me.  Doesn't  that  sound 


118  TAMAM 

queer?  I  am  pretending  he  gave  you  to  me.  He 
could  have  left  you  there,  well  knowing  I  would  find 
you. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  did  with  that  myrtle  wreath 
he  made  for  me?  I  hung  it  in  my  room  and  com- 
posed a  verse  to  go  with  it. 

"  This  is  a  garland  of  thought  entwined 

With  moments  caught  from  time,  in  its  flight; 
Not  held  in  the  frail  withered  myrtle's  bind, 
But  fast  in  the  hold  of  love,  in  its  might. 

Ah!  that  verse  means  much  to  me.  The  train  of 
thought,  that  rolls  on  in  the  course  of  life,  has  been 
interrupted  and  a  gem  stolen.  Even  Time,  which 
boasts  it  never  waits,  had  to  pause  and  surrender 
the  moments  we  spent  that  evening,  and  fast  I  hold 
them  in  memory. 

"  Now  I  may  as  well  speak  my  mind,  for  it  brings 
relief.  For  a  long  time  I  have  experienced  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  in  love.  At  first  I  did  not  know  what 
it  was.  It  seemed  to  come  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
human  events.  The  evening  he  was  here  I  was  con- 
scious of  being  in  my  best  humor.  I  also  felt  very 
happy.  After  he  left,  everything  seemed  so  differ- 
ent that  I  began  to  think  he  was  the  cause  of  my 
sensations.  Day  after  day  I  go  alone  in  this  secret. 
Think  of  having  to  keep  a  secret  from  everybody, 
even  the  one  who  is  most  concerned!  Yes,  from  all 
except  my  confidence-book!  I  wonder  how  many 
people  there  are  who  have  a  secret  love,  and  have  to 


ARLINGTON  119 

sham  all  of  the  time,  while  deep  down  in  their  hearts 
are  memories  of  a  look  or  word  which,  if  but 
the  hundredth  part  of  a  second's  duration,  was 
bliss  ? 

"  I  am  sad  to-day  and  heavy  at  heart.  I  have 
waited  so  long  for  a  letter  from  somebody  that  will 
in  some  way,  no  matter  how  distant,  refer  to  him.  I 
know  that  only  the  mention  of  his  name  will  cause  me 
to  tremble. 

"  On  time  goes,  and  not  a  syllable  comes,  so  have 
I  not  reason  to  be  sad  ? 

"  I  have  been  very  much  interested,  of  late,  and 
know  you  won't  laugh  when  I  tell  you  this  wonderful 
amount  of  interest  is  centered  on  what  he  would  say, 
if,  for  fun,  or  for  some  other  reason,  he  should  write 
a  letter  to  me.  Sometimes  I  can  see  the  headlines 

in  carefully  written  letters :  '  My  dear  Miss  ' 

I  know  I  should  be  seized  with  the  creeps,  and  would 
first  glance  through  it  to  know  what  he  said  at  the 
end.  At  other  times  I  can  see  the  first  sentence,  '  I 
crave  your  pardon,'  and  lots  of  sarcastic  references, 
ending  with,  '  Your  indulgence  in  a  reply  to  this  is 
more  than  can  be  expected.'  When  that  kind  of 
letter  comes,  I  want  to  be  where  I  can  say  what  I 
think,  and  not  have  to  think  what  I  say. 

"  Since  I  don't  get  any  kind  of  a  letter,  I  have 
decided  the  one  that  is  to  come  shall  be  a  nice  one, 
which  is  certainly  the  more  cheerful  way  to  look 
at  it. 


120  TAMAM 

"  Just  what  do  I  want  him  to  say  ?  If  I  could  be 
a  fairy  and  whisper  the  thoughts  in  his  ear,  what 
would  I  whisper?  This  would  be  an  awful  respon- 
sibility !  Suppose  I  was  that  fairy  and  had  to  write 
for  him  a  letter  to  myself,  then  be  myself  again  and 
take  the  consequences  as  to  how  I  would  feel  toward 
him  after  reading  it.  I  wish  I  had  not  thought  of 
that.  Suppose  I  should  make  him  appear  as  love-sick 
as  I  know  I  am.  I  would  not  like  that,  because  no 
woman  cares  for  a  man  who  is  too  deeply  in  love  with 
her.  It  is  too  much  like  having  a  pet  bird  in  a  cage. 
Suppose  I  should  have  him  evade  all  reference  to 
that  evening,  and  write  just  a  plain,  every-day, 
friendly  letter?  I  would  think  he  was  intentionally 
tantalizing  me,  and  would  not  like  that. 

"  What  if  I  should  make  him  be  real  nice  and  con- 
fess that  his  action  was  close  to  rudeness ;  ask  if  I 
should  accept  his  silence  as  a  confession  from  an  er- 
ratic temperament  and  let  him  rest  his  load  of  pen- 
ance at  my  feet?  I  know  I  would  think  of  him  as 
a  weakling;  and,  try  as  I  might,  I  could  never  quite, 
again,  think  of  him  as  I  do  now. 

"  I  realize  I  must  spend  some  thought  before  I 
mould  the  words  that  are  to  commit  his  fate  to  my 
hands. 

"  I  have  decided  to  trust  him  to  my  tender  mercies. 
Since  I  know  I  can  never  do  him  justice,  I  shall  make 
allowance  for  any  apathetic  tendencies  that  may 
arise  in  my  real  self.  So  I  will  have  him  write  to  me 
a  valentine. 


ARLINGTON  121 


"  PETITION 


"  1  humbly  beg,  beseech  and  pray 
You  read,  before  you  throw  away, 
This  timid,  trembling,  pleading  missive; 
For  it  to  me  will  bring  much  bliss,  if 
You  will  sign  my  pardon. 


"  MISSIVE 

"  St.  Valentine  did  set  a  day 
When  all  should  be  as  blithe  and  gay 
As  newly  mated  birds,  which  sing 
Their  love-lays  in  the  birth  of  Spring. 

"  A  day  when  hearts  should  each  be  free 
Of  care,  and  spirits  filled  with  glee ; 
With  sunbeams  racing  through  the  soul 
To  gain  true  love,  their  final  goal. 

"To-day,  a  heavy  cloud  hangs  near 
A  lonely  one,  who  filled  with  fear 
Is,  lest  it  should  its  fury  vent 
On  him,  an  humble  penitent. 

"  A  heavy  heart  so  fiercely  thumps, 
And  thuds,  and  throbs,  and  pounds  and  bumps; 
A  bosom  writhes  in  agony, 
As  does  a  maddened  storm-tossed  sea. 

"Pray!  calm  the  tempest.     If  you  will, 
Just  softly  whisper,  '  Peace,  be  still ' ; 
And  send  to  me  in  plain  design 
A  pardon  for  my  valentine. 

"  All  of  my  pains  to  save  him  was  simply  mak- 
ing trouble  for  myself,  as  I  will  now  have  to  plan  how 
I  would  answer  such  a  communication. 

"  In  valentines  one  has  to  interpret  their  message, 


122  TAMAM 

which  surely  depends  on  how  you  feel  toward  the  one 
who  sends  it;  while  with  poetic  license  the  wording 
can  be  such  as  to  either  have  much  or  have  no  mean- 
ing, all  dependent  upon  the  point  of  view  you  may 
choose  to  take. 

"  I  have  to  admit  he  has  adroitly  circumvented 
every  loop-hole  from  which  I  can  reply. 

"  How  I  would  like  to  tell  him  of  my  heart's  long- 
ing, and,  in  a  breath  of  soft  whisper,  be  forced  to 
admit  my  plight !  But  I  can't  do  it,  for  a  woman  is 
not  supposed  to  really  love,  only  to  yield  to  the  love  of 
others,  and  oh,  dear !  how  untrue  that  is. 

"  I  presume  I  should  write  to  him  a  note-size  reply, 
so  he  would  understand  I  did  not  care  to  express 
myself  at  length.  Then  the  conventionalism  of 
notes  lets  one  write  his  name,  with  the  prefix  '  Mister  ' 
at  the  end,  together  with  the  date,  so  you  don't  have 
to  bother  about  the  beginning  or  ending.  I  would 
speak  of  his  clever  conception  in  valentines,  and  in- 
cidentally use  the  '  we  '  form  in  address,  telling  him 
'  we  '  had  not  entirely  forgotten  him,  even  through 
his  long  silence,  and  that  *  we '  always  assumed  he 
would  take  advantage  of  any  opportunity  he  may 
have  to  make  us  a  visit. 

"  How  unsatisfying  all  this  would  be.  I  don't 
like  it.  I  want  him  to  make  a  bold  plunge  and  write 
one  of  those  letters  you  can  squeeze  and  see  the  very 
drops  of  life-blood  ooze  from  it.  I  feel  I  can  trust 
myself  for  the  consequences,  since  I  am  in  an  exceed- 
ingly receptive  mood,  so  I  will  have  him  confess  in 


ARLINGTON  123 

unsparing  terms  his  love  for  me.     He  can  leave  out 
all  preliminaries  and  explanations,  and  just  begin: 

"  '  To  you, — the  one  whose  countenance  is  in- 
effaceable in  my  memory,  the  sound  of  whose  voice 
is  in  my  ears,  imperishable  to  the  extent  of  my 
heart's  life, — I  pour  out  my  soul,  in  the  faith  that 
your  generous  nature  will  harken  to  the  call  of  one 
who  is  so  intrepid  as  to  nurture  the  ambition  that 
your  life's  happiness  may  be  cast  from  the  mould  of 
his  own  destiny.  Scan  not  too  closely  the  brazen 
arrogance  that  prompts  this  act.  You  would  find 
the  embodiment  of  jealous  envy.  Envy  of  the  very 
sunshine  that  kisses  your  cheek,  though : 

"  '  Were  I  but  a  sunbeam, 

And  on  jour  cheek  could  play, 
I'd  kiss  you   till  it  seemed  as  if 
I'd  kiss  you  all  away. 

Scan  not,  else  you  find  one  prone  to  idle  dreaming, 
ever  seeing  the  one 

" '  With  eyes  of  soulful  azure  blue, 

And  summer's  warmth  of  turquoise  hue. 

"  '  You  would  find  one  who  hears,  in  the  "  Voices 
of  the  Wood,"  only  yours, 

" '  Whose  voice  is  soft  and  gentle, 

Like  that  of  cooing  doves, 
Wafted,  as  a  breath  of  hope, 
To  one  who  your  voice  loves. 

"  '  The  yearning  of  my  life  can  find  relief  only 


TAMAM 

when  I  venture  to  allow  the  pen  to  move  according 
to  the  dictates  of  my  heart,  and  my  soul  flow  in  its 
trail,  that  it  may  lay  before  you  the  story  of  its  pent- 
up  love,  a  love  that  fires  to  that  feverish  thirst,  un- 
quenchable, save  by  drinking  in  the  spirit  of  your 
presence. 

"  *  The  story  is  one  old  and  simple,  though  ever 
new  in  application.  It  is  only  that  of  longing,  hush 
and  straining.  Longing  for  one  in  person,  who  is 
ever  near  in  presence;  hushed  in  preoccupied  silence 
to  catch  the  first  utterance  of  one  whose  voice  ever 
rings  in  my  ears ;  straining  into  the  blank  of  distance 
for  the  first  outward  glimpse  of  one  ever  seen  when 
my  vision  turns  inward. 

"  '  Take  the  story  to  yourself.     It  is  my  life,  and, 

" '  Were  it  filled  with  brightest  promise, 

Noble  purpose,  strong  and  true, 
Though  but  an  offering  humble, 
I  would  make  it  all,  to  you.' 

"  How  hollow  even  that  seems  compared  with  the 
way  I  want  to  be  loved.  I  want  to  be  smothered  in 
his  caress,  and  revived  with  his  tears. 

"  When  songbirds  flit  from  our  paths  and  sing  in 
the  sunshine  as  though  they  would  burst  their 
throats,  we  are  not  satisfied,  but  go  far  into  the  mid- 
night mists  and  make  our  way  through  the  shadowed 
woodland  to  hear  the  lonely  nightingale. 

"  When  flowers  grow  at  our  doorstep,  in  a  pro- 
fusion of  beauty,  we  leave  them  and  climb  the  moun- 


ARLINGTON  125 

tainside  to   seek  that  lonely  wild  rose  which  grows 
highest  and  among  sharpest  thorns. 

"  Is  it  always  that  we  long  for  what  is  most  dif- 
ficult to  obtain?  Can  it  be  that  my  longing  for  his 
love  only  indicates  I  shall  never  really  possess  it?  Is 
he  the  wild  rose  growing  over  a  precipice  that  I  can 
never  climb? 

"  To-day  I  gathered  a  bunch  of  daisies,  and  pulled 
off  the  petals  of  every  one  to  the  measure : 

" '  He  loveth  me  all  heartily, 
Disdainfully,  distrustfully, 
He  loves  me  not  at  all. 
In  secret,  smart;  till  death  us  part; 
He  loves  me,  all  in  all.' 

"  And  do  you  know  not  a  single  one  came  out 
right,  that  is,  except  when  I  cheated.  I  felt  very 
disconsolate  until  I  chanced  to  think  they  were  only 
*  brown-eyed-Susans,'  and  those  flowers  always  bring 
sadness ;  you  can  see  tear  drops  coming  from  their 
eyes.  After  that  happy  thought  I  gathered  an  arm- 
ful of  '  golden-eyes,'  for  they  bring  sunshine  and 
happiness.  I  picked  and  picked,  a  long  time,  before 
one  came  out  just  as  I  wanted;  but  it  did. 

"  So  it  is,  with  him,  I  can  wait,  if  only  some  day, 
when  I  have  pulled  the  last  petal  from  patience,  I 
shall  find  him  waiting  for  me. 

"  I  would  measure  all  the  stars  in  the  heavens  to 
that  verse  if,  at  the  end,  there  would  be  one  little 
gleam  of  light,  even  though  ever  so  distant,  which 


126  TAMAM 

would  twinkle  back  a  ray  of  hope  that  '  He  loves  me, 
all  in  all.' 

"  My  sweetheart  book !  why  can't  I  say  my  sweet- 
heart's book?  Would  that  I  could  say'  his  sweet- 
heart's book !  It  is  strange  how  bold  one  becomes 
from  little  ventures ;  at  first  I  felt  I  must  immediately 
send  you  to  your  owner  ;  then  I  changed  my  mind  and 
decided  to  keep  you  till  he  should  come.  I  did  this 
for  a  good  long  time,  during  which  I  began  to  fondle 
you  just  a  little,  and  each  day  you  seemed  more 
precious.  The  first  time  I  kissed  you  I  felt  guilty  of 
something,  I  know  not  what,  but  I  soon  became 
hardened,  and  it  is  wonderful  how  much  satisfaction 
one  can  get  from  caressing  an  inanimate  remem- 
brance if  it  is  coupled  with  a  heart's  longing.  Then 
it  was  I  fearlessly  adopted  you  and  entrusted  the 
very  sacred  thoughts  from  my  heart  of  hearts  to 
your  keeping.  Each  entry  I  made  seemed  to  anchor 
him  more  surely  in  my  life,  until  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  disclose  that  he  pervades  my  every  thought. 

"  Help  me  keep  my  secret  from  the  heartless  world 
and,  through  pity,  keep  it  from  him.  I  pray  not  to 
die  of  a  broken  heart  from  his  learning  of  my  love 
and  being  filled  with  contempt  that  I  was  so  insipid. 

"  Keep  it  all,  for  I  keep  you  in  my  bosom,  nearest 
my  heart.  From  the  first  I  have  tried  to  keep  just 
one  little  secret  that  I  did  not  want  to  share,  even 
with  you.  But  you  wring  it  from  me;  and  I  am  no 
longer  mistress  of  iny  own  intentions.  Do  you  re- 
member when  I  came  near  telling  you  what  I  say  in 


ARLINGTON  127 

my  prayers,  then  lost  courage  and  persuaded  myself 
that  I  did  not  have  to  reveal  that?  With  it  you  have 
my  life,  all  in  all.  It  is  very  precious,  for  I  say  it 
only  in  prayer,  and  shall  write  it  in  whispers. 

"If  he  should  die  while  yet  I  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep; 
And  ere  the  time  I  should  awake 
My  lonely  soul  He  too  will  take: 

"That  on  their  journey  through  the  skies 
Our  souls  shall  in  the  same  cloud  rise; 
And  when  they  reach  the  throne  of  Grace 
My  soul  near  his  may  find  a  place." 


Ill 

THE    POTTER'S    FIELD 

"  And  they  took  counsel,  and  bought  with  them  the  potter's 
field,   to  bury  strangers   in." — Matthew  xxvii :  7. 

BACK  in  the  days  when  customs  were  nearer  their 
antecedents  and  antecedents  nearer  their  origins, 
there  existed  the  unmarred  beauty  of  two  valleys  that 
come  together  not  far  south  from  Jerusalem. 

Valleys  are  those  lines  of  expression  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  which  signify  softness,  quiet  and  rest. 
Where  the  valleys  of  the  Gahennan  and  the  Jehosa- 
phat  form  a  juncture  is  one  of  those  beautiful 
dimples  in  the  face  of  Nature. 

Here  the  stilled  waters  took  on  animation  and 
laved  the  grass-covered  banks  with  the  tenderness  of 
caressing.  The  boughs  of  the  olden-day  cedars 
swung  far  over  the  banks,  making  a  cooling  shade, 
such  that  the  waters,  owing  to  a  lowering  of  tem- 
perature, formed  those  little  whirlpool-like  eddies 
always  to  be  found  in  the  shade. 

From  the  far-up  source  of  each  stream  the  air, 
laden  to  saturation  with  oriental  spice  from  the  moun- 
tain flower,  drifts  into  mingled  fragrance  at  the 
juncture  of  these  valleys. 

Here  it  was  the  weary  pilgrim,  after  a  journey 
128 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  129 

through  parching  sands,  was  wont  to  stop  and  rest 
in  the  shade  and  bathe  his  blistered  feet  in  the  cool- 
ing waters  before  he  entered  the  city.  And  while  he 
sat,  in  restful  contemplation,  could  he  have  looked 
into  the  future  he  would  have  seen  the  very  restful- 
ness  of  the  place  was,  eventually,  to  bring  about  the 
contumely  in  which  it  would  be  held;  for  the  wor- 
shipers of  idolatry  were  even  then  seeking  the 
groves  to  contaminate  their  fragrance  with  the 
stench  of  burning  flesh  in  the  offering  of  sacrifice. 

It  was  not  strange  that,  as  the  juncture  of  the 
Gehennan  and  the  Jehosaphat  is  of  all  retreats  about 
Jerusalem  the  most  beautiful,  it  should  have  been 
chosen  as  the  common  ground  for  fanatical  religious 
zealots ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  grass-clothed 
banks  were  drenched  in  blood,  and  the  air  rent  with 
the  shrieks  of  sacrificed  children,  while  the  restful 
shades  gave  way  to  the  dance  of  heinous  shadows 
formed  by  the  flames  of  funeral  pyres  at  the  mid- 
night offerings  of  new-born  babes. 

And  could  the  same  resting  pilgrim  have  looked 
even  further  he  would  have  seen  the  laden  air  again 
retain  its  spice,  the  waters  once  more  clean  and  the 
paths  overgrown,  but  a  lingering  taint  of  abhorrent 
suspicion  hovering  about,  and  the  place  totally  de- 
serted, a  victim  to  its  own  beauty,  and  destined  to  be 
coupled  with  the  most  dramatic  treachery  in  history. 

"  The  kiss  that  betrayeth  "  was  an  old  story  long 
before  the  days  of  Judas.  When  the  desire  to  err 
was  born  in  the  breast  of  man,  an  all-wise  Providence 
coupled  with  it  the  seed  that  gives  rise  to  a  disease 


130  TAMAM 

known  as  "  remorse  of  conscience  " ;  and  the  same 
spirit  of  atonement  has  ever  existed  as  a  saving  clause 
in  the  weakness  of  human  nature. 

When  Judas  accepted  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver, 
as  payment  for  the  betrayal  of  Christ,  the  seed  of 
remorse  burst  into  full  flower ;  and  preparatory  to 
terminating  the  agony  of  his  mental  suffering  he 
deposited  his  wretchedly  gotten  gain  in  the  church 
potter,  which  receptacle  was  designed  for  a  final  dis- 
position of  "  blood  money,"  when  its  sear  into  the 
conscience  of  its  holder  could  no  longer  be  borne. 

In  the  use  of  money  found  in  church  potters  there 
was  associated  the  desire  to  obtain,  with  it,  some- 
thing akin  to  the  price  of  the  deed  it  had  purchased. 
And  the  most  that  the  trivial  sum  for  the  betrayal  of 
Christ  would  purchase  was  the  one-time  beautiful 
grove,  and  afterward  the  abandoned  "  field  of  blood," 
at  the  juncture  of  the  valleys  of  the  Gehennan  and 
Jehosaphat,  which  is  known  in  history  as  Aceldama; 
and  though  to-day  it  is  clothed  in  Nature's  most 
beautiful  garb,  yet  it  reeks  with  the  superstitions  of 
men.  Thus  it  is  we  seek  the  origin  for  the  name  of 
the  most  mysterious  of  all  graveyards,  the  "  potter's 
field." 

When  we  who  have  a  well-sodded  spot  at  the  foot 
of  an  imperishable  family  monument  awaiting  us — 
or  more  grandly,  a  niche  in  some  palatial  mausoleum 
— are  taken  with  a  sense  of  pathetic  ridicule  at  the 
suggestion  of  a  potter's  field  grave,  let  us  remember 
such  a  graveyard  was  once  purchased  with  the  price 
of  Christ's  blood,  that  not  charity,  but  the  hospital- 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD 

ity  of  a  city's  reverence  could  be  shown  the  stranger 
who,  at  the  end  of  his  weary  pilgrimage,  met  death 
within  the  walls  of  old  Jerusalem. 

While  one-half  of  the  world  has,  to  some  extent, 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  it  does  not  know  how  the 
other  half  lives,  it  is  more  than  strange  that  even 
curiosity  has  in  so  slight  degree  aroused  an  interest 
in  their  passing  from  our  midst.  Who  stops  to  look 
in  at  the  charity  hospitals,  the  morgue,  or  the  pot- 
ter's field?  Yet  one  out  of  every  two  of  us  takes  a 
charity  route  for  eternity.  When  the  rosy  hue  of 
life's  contentment  seems  fading,  and  your  spirit  be- 
comes filled  with  a  sense  of  unrest,  throw  off  the 
monotonous  contact  with  the  great  upper  half  and 
go  out  to  the  potter's  field  for  an  afternoon's  delving 
into  the  phases  surrounding  the  passing  of  the  other 
man  who,  with  you,  constituted  a  couple  in  the 
scheme  of  predestination. 

You  won't  recognize  the  place  if  it  is  a  phantasy 
of  marble  slabs  you  are  seeking,  and  not  something 
more  nearly  resembling  a  newly  ploughed  field.  Off 
at  one  side,  in  a  field  of  unsymmetrical  ridges,  you 
will  find  a  queer  old  man  who  responds  to  your  in- 
quiries with  an  acrid  shyness  and  suspicion.  He 
may  tell  you  he  is  the  grave-digger,  if  you  can  first 
give  him  satisfactory  assurance  as  to  the  purpose  of 
your  visit.  He  will  seem  very  queer,  perhaps  a 
trifle  unbalanced,  but  you  will  reason  no  thoroughly 
sane  man  would  have  taken  such  work.  And  then 
his  surroundings  have  no  tendency  to  produce  other 
than  a  morbid  state  of  mind.  He  may  not  have 


133  TAMAM 

spoken  to  a  soul  in  days,  for  no  life  comes  his  way. 
You  may  wonder  at  the  cause  of  so  disheveled  a 
state  of  the  ground,  but  the  mounds  are  only  the 
graves  of  the  counted  countless  credited  to  the  city's 
charity.  After  having  watched  an  afternoon's  pro- 
ceedings, you  will  endeavor  to  estimate  the  number 
of  regiments  the  old  grave  digger  may  have  buried. 
Your  inquiry  may  bring  forth  the  statement  that  he 
has  worked  there  for  years,  and  again  you  question 
to  know  why  the  place  is  not  filled,  and  where  is 
room  for  the  long  ridges  yet  to  be  made?  You  are 
beginning  to  learn,  when  he  tells  you  he  has  been  over 
the  ground  several  times.  You  will  then  divine  that 
every  time  he  lays  the  body  of  a  homeless  wanderer 
to  rest,  another  friendless  mortal,  whose  poor  body 
had  at  last  found  lodgment,  must  give  way  to  the 
newcomer ;  for  no  sooner  are  the  long  rows  completed, 
than  a  return  over  the  same  lines  is  begun,  modern- 
day  official  Charity  being  generally  confined  to  an 
undisturbed  rest  of  but  one  year. 

Later  on,  the  grave-digger,  who  has  been  awaiting 
the  coming  of  the  "  dead  wagon,"  goes  out  to  meet 
an  ordinary-looking  vehicle  with  plain  black  leather 
curtains.  You  may  have  seen  such  a  wagon  but 
never  thought  as  to  what  it  contained. 

You  hesitate  before  deciding  if  you  will  really 
stay.  Momentarily,  a  new  interest  has  been  aroused 
in  the  grave-digger,  and  for  the  time  you  are  for- 
gotten while  he  eagerly  glances  under  the  curtain. 
His  face,  ordinarily  expressionless,  will  reveal  a  look 
of  satisfaction  or  disappointment,  for  each  crude 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  133 

box  there  represents  a  few  cents  extra  toward  the 
maintenance  of  his  meagre  life.  You  feel  you  would 
prefer  gradually  to  accustom  yourself,  so  remain  at 
a  distance ;  for,  should  your  courage  fail,  you  will 
want  to  get  your  attention  diverted. 

There  is  an  odd  exchange  of  greeting  between  the 
grave-digger  and  the  driver,  together  with  a  receipt 
for  the  load  of  boxes,  each  box  with  its  serial  number, 
and  placed  in  line  consecutively.  This  enables  the 
identification  of  a  grave  should  an  interred  body  be 
subsequently  claimed. 

Now,  a  box  containing  the  body  of  an  adult  is  no 
light  task  for  two  old  men,  in  its  unloading,  and  only 
one  old  man  to  bury  it,  so  formality  gives  way  to 
ingenuity,  and  the  boxes,  one  at  a  time,  are  slipped 
out  until  an  end  falls  to  the  ground,  the  other  resting 
against  the  wagon.  Thus  each  box  very  nearly  at- 
tains an  upright  position  during  the  brief  interval 
occupied  by  the  driver  in  moving  his  wagon  forward, 
whereupon  the  box  falls  at  the  side  of  its  place  of  in- 
terment, whence  it  can  be  rolled  into  its  grave. 

The  thud  of  each  fall  jars  your  nerves,  but  the 
calmness  of  the  old  half-witted  man  gives  you  cour- 
age, and  serves  to  brace  you  for  each  succeeding 
fall.  That  time  it  was  a  crash !  The  box  gave  way, 
and  before  your  curiosity  let  you  turn  aside  you 
caught  sight  of  something  in  it.  You  are  glad  you 
remained  at  a  distance,  and  nervously  look  for  some- 
thing else  to  hold  your  attention  while  the  old  man 
repairs  the  box. 

At  first  you  marveled  at  the  display  of  self-corn- 


134  TAMAM 

posure  shown  in  the  grave-digger,  then  it  changed 
to  admiration.  Now  your  cowering  nerves  make 
you  feel  you  would  even  cling  to  him  for  support, 
and  you  are  powerless  to  leave.  When  you  have 
made  sure  there  is  nothing  longer  visible,  you  master 
yourself  and  go  nearer  the  line  of  boxes,  for  the  old 
man  is  making  preparations  for  the  work  of  burying. 
When  you  have  seen  the  absolute  indifference  with 
which  he  sits  on  a  box  for  a  few  moments'  rest,  you 
are  sufficiently  encouraged  to  remain.  He  is  in  fine 
humor,  for  his  day's  work  will  afford  sufficient  for 
his  needs,  and  he  busies  himself  accordingly.  You 
stand  by  in  silence ;  you  do  not  choose  to  sit. 

The  old  man  continues  digging,  and  you  feel  some 
sense  of  relief,  until  his  spade  strikes  something, 
sounding  as  though  he  had  come  to  a  wooden  bottom. 
How  did  it  happen  there  was  a  plank  there?  Then 
it  comes  over  you :  he  has  struck  an  old  coffin.  You 
feel  an  inclination  to  saunter  off  while  he  cleans  out 
the  grave,  but  his  is  a  reassuring  manner  and  you 
remain ;  you  even  look  into  the  grave.  It  looks  very 
much  as  a  pit  would  appear  if  it  had  partly  con- 
cealed planks  in  the  bottom,  and  all  that  remains  to 
be  done  is  to  roll  the  new  box  in  on  top  of  the  old 
one.  You  can  surely  witness  that.  The  old  man 
measures  the  depth  with  his  spade,  gives  a  grunt  of 
satisfaction,  and  moves  forward  to  make  the  next 
shallow  opening. 

You  have  been  through  it  now,  and,  quite  proud 
of  your  courage,  anticipate  the  calmness  with  which 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  135 

you  will  watch  him  go  through  the  next  task.  He 
digs  away,  and  again  strikes  wood.  It  jars  you 
slightly,  because  you  had  not  expected  it  so  soon. 
He  cleans  away  the  dirt  from  the  top  of  another  old 
coffin,  just  as  before,  then  straightens  up  for  a  mo- 
ment's rest.  You  feel  vain  in  the  possession  of  your 
own  wonderful  stamina. 

But  he  does  not  move  to  the  next  place,  as  you 
supposed  he  would,  so  you  wait  with  your  now  steady 
nerves.  He  makes  a  stroke  with  his  spade,  and  be- 
fore you  realize  what  is  to  follow,  has  split  open  the 
old  box,  exposing  to  view  the  complete  framework  of 
a  human  body,  every  bone  in  its  relative  position,  as 
if  placed  there  preparatory  to  the  building  of  an 
anatomical  structure.  You  are  dazed,  and  wonder 
what  the  old  man  will  do  next.  Surely  he  did  not 
know  he  would  find  so  gruesome  a  sight.  In  another 
minute  he  has  rolled  the  bones  into  a  pile  in  one  cor- 
ner, and  you  watch  him  sift  the  dirt  through  his 
fingers  to  separate  any  small  bones  he  may  have  dis- 
placed. 

You  will  probably  refrain  from  a  close  scrutiny  of 
succeeding  openings,  and  it  is  well  if  you  do.  Occa- 
sionally an  opened  box  displays  remains  not  suf- 
ficiently well  advanced  in  the  stage  of  decomposition 
to  permit  of  being  raked  into  a  pile  in  the  corner, 
whereupon  the  grave-digger  will  refill  that  grave,  to 
be  left  until  again  he  comes  down  the  same  long 
ridge. 

Should  you  feel  interested  in  further  experiences 


136  TAMAM 

of  the  old  man,  and  make  inquiry  to  this  effect,  he 
may  scan  some  recent  interments,  for  what  appears 
to  be  a  disturbed  grave,  then  make  you  comprehend 
he  sometimes  opens  a  box  from  which  the  head  is 
missing,  and  you  will  understand  it  is  an  easier  mat- 
ter for  those  who  earn  their  living  through  the 
supplying  of  anatomical  material  to  steal  away  with 
the  head  or  a  limb,  leaving  the  mutilated  body  in  its 
resting-place. 

Talk  with  him  further,  and  you  may  win  his  full 
confidence.  This  poor  old  man,  ostracised  from  the 
animate  world,  shunned  by  every  human  that  has  a 
taint  of  superstition  in  his  nature, — and  who  has 
not? — has  pride.  Let  him  take  you  to  the  place 
where  he  buries  the  children  from  the  foundling  asy- 
lum. There  is  a  little  corner  which  he  retains  for 
this  purpose.  The  small  boxes  do  not  take  up  much 
room,  so  he  has  not  found  it  necessary  to  disturb 
them.  In  the  city's  administration  regarding  the 
potter's  field  there  is  a  provision  to  the  effect  that 
such  graves  as  are  claimed  and  cared  for,  to  the  ex- 
tent of  placing  a  wooden  "  tombstone "  at  the 
grave,  may  remain  undisturbed.  And  here  in  this 
corner  you  will  find  rows  of  small  white  painted  slabs, 
elaborated  with  stenciled  letters  which  say  to  the 
pitifully  small  portion  of  the  world  passing  that 
way,  that  little  mites  of  humanity,  even  though  with 
but  a  single  name,  are  sleeping  here. 

One  little  mound  may  be  adorned  with  a  heart- 
shaped  figure  formed  of  small  shells,  another  with  a 
broken  flower  vase  which  the  old  man  has  found 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  137 

somewhere,  and  there  may  even  be  a  bunch  of  wild 
flowers  on  the  latest  among  his  sleeping  charges. 
He  moves  about  silently,  stepping  between  the 
mounds,  picking  up  a  piece  of  trash  here  and  there 
or  pulling  out  a  conspicuous  weed. 
Read  such  an  epitaph  as, 

"  CHARLOTTE. 
Age  about  one  year" 

Can  you  comprehend  the  hidden  meaning  in  that? 
Do  you  realize  she  was  a  creation  of  soul  and  body, 
ushered  into  existence,  perhaps,  through  the  gateway 
of  parental  shame,  only  to  be  thrown  upon  the  scant 
mercy  of  a  world  whose  sympathies  have  long  been 
overtaxed,  then  to  pass  her  one  year  of  strange  exist- 
ence in  the  din  of  a  foundlings'  home,  after  which  the 
little  body  finds  rest  from  its  jostled  career  in  the 
potter's  field,  and  no  one  but  a  half-witted  grave- 
digger  to  keep  watch?  If  we  believed  in  the  rein- 
carnation of  souls,  what  place  in  the  new  realm  would 
such  a  little  mite's  soul  fill?  If  it  returned  clothed 
as  a  golden-haired  princess,  could  one  bear  envy  to- 
ward her?  Will  our  conceptions  admit  of  contem- 
plation as  to  why  the  Creator  of  life  brought  from 
eternity  those  little  beings,  and  let  them,  moth-like, 
flit  into  the  flame  of  human  selfishness?  unless  it  was 
necessary  they  be  given  a  fleeting  material  existence, 
that  He  may  gather  them  from  earth  to  clothe  in  the 
down  of  baby  angels,  that  they  may  play  through 
the  life  and  dreams  of  the  self-sacrificing  nurses  who 


138  TAMAM 

gave  them  a  name  to  adorn  their  slabs,  and  of  the 
humble  potter's  field  sexton  who  buried  them  and 
placed  shells  and  bits  of  colored  glass  on  their  little 
mounds. 

You  may  occasionally  pass  by  wooden  slabs  indi- 
cating that  the  body  resting  there  has  yet  one  hold 
upon  the  memory  of  some  mortal  being.  When  you 
read  "  Father"  with  a  date  and  no  other  identifica- 
tion, you  feel  inclined  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  such 
an  epitaph.  If  successful  you  may  learn  that 
"  Father  "  was  a  cast  away,  and  the  widowed  mother 
had  to  ask  for  his  burial  in  the  potter's  field ;  and 
though  she  went  through  the  formality  of  claiming 
his  grave,  yet  her  pride  was  such  she  could  not  have 
his  name  stenciled  on  the  wooden  slab  announcing  to 
the  world  the  wretchedness  of  her  poverty. 

You  will  find  epitaphs  in  words  of  ridiculously 
pathetic  endearment,  but  seldom  will  you  find  a  name 
or  any  designation  other  than  that  of  relationship, 
or  the  occasional  "  Friend." 

As  you  pass  out  over  the  long  unbroken  rows 
marking  the  exit  from  mortality  of  those  who  came 
and  went  without  leaving  a  footprint  for  identifica- 
tion, you  should  pause  and  question  if  the  one  who 
constituted  your  couple  in  the  scheme  of  creation  has 
as  yet  found  lodgment  in  those  rows. 


While  the  posthumous  daughter  was  sounding 
deep  in  the  sea  of  activity,  blessed  in  the  possession 
of  that  mental  contentment  arising  when  one  finds 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  139 

oneself  deep  in  the  concentration  of  purpose,  how  dif- 
ferent it  was  with  him  who  had  been  dashed  from  the 
crest  of  a  patriotic  wave  into  the  hidden  quicksands 
of  broken  health,  and  was  now  seeking  recuperation 
in  the  seclusion  of  country  life. 

"  Broken  in  health  "  is  a  pitiful  phrase  when  ap- 
plied to  a  man.  To  him  we  proffer  abundant  sym- 
pathy, encouragement  and  material  aid  in  every  way, 
but  he  must  respond  through  rapid  convalescence, 
else  we  desert  him ;  whereupon  he  becomes  nothing 
more  than  a  piece  of  complicated  machinery,  deficient 
in  a  vital  part,  absolutely  useless,  and  a  burden  in 
his  keeping. 

With  woman,  how  different!  For  her  there  is 
always  our  tenderest  sympathy.  The  ebb  in  her 
strength  is  the  flood  in  our  love.  In  fact,  frailness 
and  delicacy  of  structure  are  distinct  attributes  of 
her  charm. 

However,  the  balm  of  country  air  and  the  blue  in 
Southern  skies  were  fast  scattering  the  quicksands, 
and  he  was  rapidly  becoming  his  old  self.  He  had 
gone  to  one  of  those  old  home  places  where  the 
widowed  owner,  left  with  few  wants  and  an  inherent 
responsibility,  has  for  let  the  farm  on  certain  modest 
conditions ;  namely,  that  she  retain  the  house,  the 
garden,  pasturage  for  her  horse  and  cow,  while  the 
tenant  is  to  work  the  garden,  milk  the  cow,  hitch  up 
the  horse,  and  do  any  odd  jobs  about  the  place  which 
cannot  be  foreseen ;  that  no  live  stock  be  brought  on 
the  place,  or  lands  ploughed,  other  than  necessary  to 
supply  the  immediate  personal  needs  of  the  tenant. 


140  TAMAM 

After  complying  with  these  conditions,  there  was  left 
for  him  a  small  isolated  house,  but  so  located  as  to 
enable  him  to  comprehend  to  the  fullest  the  beauties 
of  the  woodlands  and  meadows. 

Just  how  the  farm  was  to  repay  the  generous 
rental  the  new  tenant  did  not  know,  but  the  purpose 
sought  had  been  obtained,  for  he  was  at  peace  with 
himself  and  the  world.  That  he  was  more  or  less  an 
enigma  to  the  widow  and  her  neighbors  he  knew,  and 
thoroughly  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  his  position. 
Who  he  was,  whence  he  came  or  what  was  his  past, 
she  never  had  the  courage  to  ask,  but  trusted  to 
her  ingenuity  to  win  his  confidence  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  her  curiosity  at  a  later  time.  She  did 
know  one  thing,  having  seen  it  with  her  own  eyes, 
that  he  was  wonderfully  possessed  with  those  quali- 
fications which  go  to  make  what  is  called  masculine 
beauty. 

Woman  is  beautiful  through  sentiment ;  man, 
through  character.  Though  the  rose-tinted  flush  in 
the  face  of  woman  is  fragrant,  the  sombre  bronze  in 
the  face  of  man  is  more  lasting.  The  classic  mouth 
of  woman  is  artistic,  but  the  firm-set  lower  jaw  of 
man  is  assuring.  The  liquid  eye  of  woman  enthralls 
us  in  its  languor  of  love,  but  the  penetrating  eye  of 
man  fills  us  with  a  sense  of  fear,  lest  it  see  us  as  we, 
in  truth,  see  ourselves. 

He  could  be  described  as  having  that  smooth-cut, 
nearly  straight  brow  indicative  of  intelligence,  rather 
than  the  more  receding  brow  indicating  the  necessity 
for  cultivating  the  perceptive  sense,  or  the  unpleas- 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  141 

antly  strong  and  overhanging  brow  filled  with  plain, 
dull  logic,  ever  ready  to  jab  a  ragged  wound  in  any 
artful  conceit  we  may  devise. 

His  were  not  those  great  floating  eyes  which  seem 
necessary  for  an  effusion  of  a  jubilant  nature,  but 
were  a  trifle  small,  though  not  so  small  as  to  give 
the  impression  of  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  character, 
while  the  distinct  gray  shade  dispelled  any  sugges- 
tion of  the  ornate,  through  the  weakness  of  fanciful 
coloring. 

The  human  nose  conveys  a  world  of  meaning.  If 
of  the  thin,  pinched  type,  it  restricts  the  flow  of 
oxygen  necessary  for  the  combustion  of  impurities 
in  the  blood,  which  means  an  accumulation  of  im- 
purities in  the  character.  If -it  is  large  and  with 
dilated  nostrils,  it  is  generally  due  to  an  incessant  ex- 
halation of  diluted  thought.  When  tilted  slightly,  it 
implies  a  certain  haughtiness  not  at  all  displeasing, 
though  if  more  than  slightly,  it  is  apt  to  suggest 
freckles  and  red  hair,  while  a  tilt  of  greater  angle 
makes  it  necessary  that  one  avoid  looking  into  the 
nostrils  rather  than  the  eyes  of  its  possessor.  If 
pointed  downward,  the  character  must  struggle  to 
dispel  its  associations  with  a  bird  of  prey.  His  nose 
was  as  none  of  these. 

A  critical  feature  in  the  human  face  is  the  chin. 
If  deficient,  how  suggestive  is  the  profile  to  that  of 
a  domestic  fowl.  In  woman's  face  the  truly  artistic 
part  is  that  portion  below  the  nose.  Her 
critical  line  begins  with  the  upper  lip  and  extends  to 
the  base  of  the  neck.  The  nature  of  this  line  can 


TAMAM 

make  or  mar  any  abundance  of  perfection  in  the  rest 
of  her  face. 

His  chin  was  a  continuation  of  that  line  from  the 
forehead,  which  gave  it  just  a  faint  tendency  to 
prominence,  rather  than  toward  the  weakness  dis- 
played in  receding  chins ;  and  the  line  from  the  point 
to  the  throat  was  nearly  horizontal,  making  almost 
a  sharp  angle  with  the  neck,  so  characteristic  of  that 
strength  found  in  the  well-balanced,  nervous  tem- 
perament of  a  sparsely  built  man. 

His  head  was  crowned  with  a  slight  wave  in  the 
chestnut  brown  of  his  hair,  and  it  may  be  said  his 
general  outline  was  sufficiently  in  accord  with  his 
face.  He  was  a  type  particularly  lovable,  self-sac- 
rificing and  subservient,  yet  holding  himself  in  high 
worth. 

He  was  a  joy  to  the  widow's  soul,  and  nothing 
gave  him  such  pleasure  as  serving  her.  Such  pride 
he  took  in  her  garden,  that  nowhere  were  the  toma- 
toes so  red  and  the  peppers  so  green.  Her  beans 
nodded  their  pods  from  the  tops  of  poles  so  high  that 
they  could  see  into  the  upper  window  of  the  barn. 
So  persistently  did  he  hoe  and  rake  the  ground  that 
even  the  dwarf  peas  grew  to  the  top  of  the  fence 
along  which  they  were  planted.  He  enjoyed  bring- 
ing splendid  vegetables  to  show  to  her  at  some  un- 
earthly hour  in  the  morning,  and  then  chide  her  for 
being  a  late  sleeper. 

When  cooking  breakfast,  if  he  chanced  to  get  a 
corn-meal  cake  particularly  well  browned  and  tempt- 
ing, he  dropped  everything  and  ran  with  it  to  the 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  143 

widow.  If  she  but  intimated  a  sense  of  fatigue,  he 
would  come  down  early  next  morning  with  a  break- 
fast of  the  sweetest  cantaloup,  the  crispest  lettuce, 
the  strongest  coffee,  the  hottest  corn  bread,  and  the 
most  appetizingly  broiled  bacon. 

Many  times  had  the  widow  arranged  a  meal  which 
she  knew  was  particularly  to  his  liking,  then  waited 
patiently  until  he  chanced  to  come  near  the  house, 
when  she  would  call  to  him,  saying  she  was  just  sit- 
ting down  and  would  he  join  her.  Invariably  he 
explained  he  was  in  no  condition  to  sit  down  with  a 
lady,  had  left  his  coat,  been  feeding  the  horse,  must 
put  out  the  cow,  or  some  excuse  equally  pertinent. 

And  strange  though  it  may  seem,  he  never  entered 
her  house,  but  would  stand  at  the  door  and  talk  by 
the  hour,  and  to  her  suggestion  that  he  "  have  a 
seat  "  would  reply  he  was  just  going  and  had  only 
intended  to  stop  a  minute.  She  soon  learned  that  to 
invite  him  to  be  seated  was  the  equivalent  of  asking 
him  to  leave.  So  many  were  the  evening  hours  he 
passed,  standing  and  talking,  while  she  sat  in  the 
quiet  of  her  doorway  listening  to  his  philosophical 
rambles  on  how  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of  setting 
hens ;  that  a  rooster  can  teach  any  one  lessons  in  good 
manners,  and  such  topics  so  fearfully  irrelevant  to 
the  theme  for  which  she  thirsted,  something  of  his 
past.  She  never  found  opportunity  to  lead  up  to 
this  subject.  He  always  came  with  something  to 
say,  said  it,  then  had  something  else  to  say,  and  so 
on,  always  standing,  ever  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

The  widow  had  doubtless  measured  the  span  of 


144  TAMAM 

twenty  years  existing  between  them,  and  felt  immune 
to  the  possibilities  of  neighborhood  comment.  But 
younger  women,  somehow,  became  particularly  con- 
scious of  the  friendship  they  had  long  entertained 
for  the  widow.  Though  what  opportunity  offered? 
Should  they  go  to  her  house  to  return  some  butter, 
borrow  some  eggs  or  get  a  cake  receipt,  he  always 
saw  them  in  time  to  take  to  the  shelter  of  the  pole 
beans  or  the  sugar  corn. 

One  resourceful  young  woman  suggested  that  the 
sewing-circle  meet  at  the  widow's ;  but  whoever  heard 
of  a  man  being  enticed  near  such  a  thing  as  that? 
Why  not  make  it  a  quilting-party,  after  the  old-time 
custom,  where  men  went  through  the  ludicrous  per- 
formance of  sewing?  The  widow  knew  he  could  not 
be  gotten  into  the  house.  Then  why  not  have  it  out 
of  doors,  a  kind  of  picnic  "  quilting-bee  "  ?  That 
surely  was  the  thing!  And  while  the  widow  warned 
them  she  would  not  guarantee  his  attendance,  yet  she 
said  she  would  do  her  best.  She  knew  how  to  be 
adroit,  and  could  put  it  in  the  light  of  his  helping 
her  prepare  for  the  occasion,  then  keep  him  on  hand 
until  he  could  be  delivered  to  the  first  arrival,  who 
in  turn  would  hold  him  until  reinforced. 

So  it  was  agreed,  and  how  busy  the  neighborhood 
became!  the  mothers  planning  tempting  morsels,  the 
daughters  frocks,  and  all  a  series  of  questions  to  be 
asked  in  an  indeterminable  way,  such  as  to  avoid 
suspicion,  though  when  arranged  in  sequence  would 
throw  light  upon  his  mysterious  past. 

The  widow's  suggestion  that  he  help  her  met  with 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  145 

his  warmest  enthusiasm.  He  would  do  all,  and  make 
everyone  fear  to  undertake  a  similar  function  owing 
to  the  high  standard  she  had  established.  Both 
fairly  swam  in  the  delirium  of  excitement  incident  to 
the  great  success  they  would  make  of  it. 

How  he  did  work  the  melons,  pinch  back  the 
suckers,  and  prime  the  new  shoots  so  as  to  time  their 
ripening  for  the  great  day !  He  put  the  cow  on 
fresh  pasture,  picked  the  burrs  from  her  tail,  and 
even  contemplated  putting  a  flynet  over  her,  all  of 
which  measures  were,  in  his  judgment,  particularly 
conducive  to  the  production  of  rich  cream. 

The  day  set  for  the  great  occasion  finally  came ; 
and  before  the  widow  had  finished  breakfast,  he  had 
begun  the  arrangement  of  the  settees,  benches,  ham- 
mocks, and  even  the  quilting-frame.  She  stood  in 
her  doorway  and  looked  on  with  a  smile,  knowing  full 
well  his  ambition  was  to  carry  out  his  own  conception 
without  hindrance  or  advice  from  any  one.  She 
knew  he  had  marked  the  positions  the  shade  would 
have  at  the  appointed  hour,  and  that  he  courted  her 
comment  as  to  why  he  had  placed  the  seats  for  the 
guests  in  the  glare  of  the  morning  sun.  Vanity 
exists  in  strange  fashions  in  women,  and  she  denied 
him  the  pleasure  he  would  have  found  in  his  reply. 

He  spent  a  busy  morning,  fixing  hooks  in  the 
trees  for  the  support  of  the  lemonade  buckets,  over 
which  an  elder-wood  "  spile  "  was  driven  into  the  tree 
in  imitation  of  "  tapping  "  for  sugar  water ;  design- 
ing a  pretended  camp-fire,  over  which  a  pot  swung 
from  its  "  three-stake "  support,  where  the  hard- 


146  TAMAM 

boiling  of  the  stuffed-egg  salads  was  supposedly 
done;  arranging  an  isolated  sewing-table,  where  dif- 
fident girls  could  go  off  to  themselves  and  be  happy ; 
collecting  horseshoes  and  a  couple  of  harrow  teeth, 
that  diffident  men  might  go  off  to  themselves  and  be 
happy.  And  so  the  morning  passed,  leaving  to  his 
credit  a  goodly  number  of  ingenious  conceptions. 
The  widow  had  been  equally  busy  in  the  preparation 
of  "  egg-kisses  "  and  charlotte  russe,  for  which  she 
was  locally  famous.  No  one  ever  dared  compete  with 
her  in  the  making  of  either  of  these  confections ;  and 
with  the  unusually  fine  cream  of  that  morning  the 
charlotte  russe  surpassed  all  previous  efforts,  while 
the  "  egg-kisses  "  so  closely  resembled  spun-glass, 
of  a  creamy  color,  as  to  arouse  suspicion. 

In  the  early  afternoon  one  very  ambitious  young 
woman  came,  suggesting  she  might  be  of  some  use, 
but  found  everything  arranged  except  the  stretching 
of  the  quilt.  This  she  and  the  widow  proceeded  to 
do. 

The  procedure  at  a  quilting-party  such  as  this 
consisted  in  the  guests  doing  fancy  stitching  around 
the  edges  of  the  many-colored  silk,  satin  and  velvet 
pieces  of  irregular  pattern  combining  to  make  the 
"  crazy-quilt."  This  stitching  concealed  the  edging, 
and  when  done  in  a  variety  of  styles  and  colored  silk 
threads  formed  a  wonderfully  beautiful  piece  of 
handiwork.  Such  a  quilt  was  not  the  work  of  a  day, 
or  of  an  individual,  but  of  a  family  and  its  friends, 
and  even  a  generation.  In  its  development  there 
was  often  brought  into  use  portions  of  the  grand- 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  147 

father's  silken  "  stock  " ;  a  scrap  from  the  mother's 
satin  wedding  gown,  aged  to  a  beautiful  amber 
shade;  and  the  ribbon  that  was  tied  around  the 
daughter's  diploma.  The  same  quilt  would  serve  at 
more  than  one  party,  and  many  times,  before  com- 
pletion, entered  upon  the  purpose  of  its  creation, 
that  of  being  displayed  at  the  annual  county  fair. 
Some  pieces  would  be  elaborately  embroidered,  others 
covered  with  initials,  with  here  and  there  a  few  dis- 
arranged stitches,  showing  a  masculine  hand  had 
come  in  at  that  particular  place ;  sometimes  a  spider- 
web,  in  silver  threads,  with  a  brown  spider  nearby, 
perhaps  showing  two  protruding  red  eyes.  Such 
a  party  afforded  opportunity  for  skill  in  work  and 
ingenuity  of  design ;  also  an  excuse  for  youths  and 
maidens,  when  working  on  adjoining  pieces,  to  get 
their  hands  together,  their  heads  together,  and  even 
their  hearts  together. 

When  the  quilt  had  been  stretched,  the  widow 
explained  a  certain  square  of  smoke-tinted  silk  had 
been  cut  from  one  of  her  wedding  garments,  and  that 
she  proposed  asking  him  to  work  the  initials  of  his 
name  on  it,  explaining,  with  a  twinkle,  that  at  the 
same  time  she  would  be  getting  something  toward 
his  history.  "  And  I  want  to  work  on  the  square 
just  below  that,"  suggested  the  young  woman.  So 
they  continued  planning  groups  with  respect  to 
possible  congenialities,  unconscious  as  to  how  patent 
it  was  that  the  smoke-tinted  silk  received  the  great- 
est portion  of  their  thoughts. 

The  widow  had  not  seen  him  since  the  forenoon; 


148  TAMAM 

and,  busied  as  she  was,  the  time  for  the  arrival  of  her 
guests  had  come  too  soon,  and  after  all  found  her 
single-handed  save  for  the  presence  of  the  ambitious 
young  woman  who  had  come  early.  Nor  could  her 
guests  conceal  their  disappointment  when  received 
by  her  as  a  lone  hostess.  Later,  when  he  was  seen 
in  the  distance  calmly  strolling  about  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  it  dawned  upon  them  all  that  he  had  no  idea 
of  coming.  Immediately  the  quilting-party  was 
doomed.  The  smoke-tinted  silk  lost  its  charm,  and 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  steady  spinsters  who  con- 
stituted the  charter  members  of  the  "  circle,"  the 
quilt  was  deserted. 

A  second  ambitious  young  woman,  together  with 
the  first,  obtained  the  widow's  permission  to  carry 
to  him  her  message  that  he  was  wanted.  Being  com- 
pletely off  his  guard  he  had  stopped  at  the  garden 
fence,  and  resting  his  arms  on  the  top  rail  was  ab- 
sorbed in  admiration  of  his  own  skill  as  a  gardener. 
As  the  young  women  were  coming  toward  him  from 
the  rear  they  talked  in  low  tones  that  it  might  ap- 
pear they  were  not  endeavoring  to  approach  stealth- 
ily, yet  they  were  careful  that  these  tones  could  be 
heard  at  no  considerable  distance.  Believing  them- 
selves sufficiently  near  for  the  delivery  of  their  mes- 
sage, they  raised  their  tones  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion. When  he  caught  the  sound  of  voices,  without 
so  much  as  a  turn  of  the  head  he  grasped  the  top 
rail  of  the  fence,  and  made  a  hand-spring,  as  if  he 
had  just  decided  to  do  something  in  the  garden. 
The  top  rail  was  too  weak  and  gave  way  with  a  crash, 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  149 

letting  him  fall  in  the  midst  of  his  famous  dwarf 
peas.  The  young  women,  fearing  he  might  be  in- 
jured, after  a  momentary  pause  neared  the  break 
in  the  fence.  Up  he  sprang  like  a  deer,  and  made 
for  cover  among  the  pole  beans.  They  saw  a  form 
swallowed  up  in  the  jungle  and  clash  of  the  once 
symmetrically  placed  poles,  and  by  the  wake  that 
followed  him  through  the  sweet  corn,  knew  he  had 
not  stopped  there.  This  furnished  sufficient  ex- 
citement to  make  the  party  take  on  new  life,  and 
later,  when  the  guests  had  surveyed  the  wreck  of 
the  prize  garden  and  enjoyed  a  laugh  at  the  widow's 
expense,  they  departed  in  good  humor. 

It  is  unlikely  if  any  one  enjoyed  the  episode  so 
thoroughly  as  he  who  had  wrought  the  devastation. 
After  that  he  always  protested  against  the  widow's 
having  a  woman  come  on  the  place,  giving  as  his 
reason  it  made  him  break  down  more  corn  than  would 
be  needed  to  supply  the  horse  and  cow  for  a  month 
during  midwinter. 


When  the  combination  of  new  surroundings,  simple 
living,  fresh  air,  independent  occupation  and  un- 
selfish thought  is  brought  to  bear  on  a  depleted 
constitution  of  normally  healthy  construction,  the 
effect  produced  is  but  short  of  marvelous.  These 
remedies  were  rapidly  restoring  to  him  that  buoy- 
ancy characteristic  of  youth. 

The  old  sore  caused  by  a  one-time  unrequited  love 
had  healed,  and  every  vein  in  his  body  ran  with  new 


150  TAMAM 

blood:  a  blood  that  filled  him  with  love  and  admira- 
tion, love  for  himself,  and  admiration  for  his  own 
self-mastery.  His  was  perfect  contentment,  absolute 
defiance  to  that  great  portion  of  the  world  beyond  his 
own  horizon.  Therefore,  when  an  unusual-appear- 
ing letter  package  reached  him,  bearing  evidence  of 
having  taken  a  circuitous  route  through  the  postal 
channels,  it  is  not  strange  that  he  involuntarily  re- 
sented its  trespass-like  entrance  into  the  sacred  do- 
main of  his  sequestered  life.  It  is  not  supposed  he 
waited  until  he  had  sought  the  sanctity  of  his  room, 
but,  more  probably,  with  some  appropriate  ex- 
pletive, made  one  of  those  jagged  tears,  as  we  do 
when  the  letter  is  neither  expected  nor  desired.  A 
small  note-book  was  revealed,  bearing  his  name  in 
gilt  letters  on  the  cover.  To  see  our  name  in  print, 
particularly  in  gilt  letters,  is  more  than  apt  to  touch 
our  sense  of  vanity.  So  it  was  with  curiosity,  and 
some  pride,  he  examined  the  book.  Down  in  the  left 
hand  corner  was  a  word  that  filled  him  with  con- 
tempt. Who  would  send  him  a  "  Diary,"  the  school- 
girl's secret  and  the  old  maid's  solace?  He  seemed 
to  recall  that  years  before  one  had  been  given  him, 
one  similar  to  this.  What  had  become  of  it,  he  knew 
not — yes,  he  had  lost  it,  and  here  was  the  same  old 
book  following  him  through  his  various  movements. 
Knowing  full  well  he  never  had  nor  ever  intended  to 
write  in  it,  he  let  the  leaves  fly  rapidly  from  the  ball 
of  his  thumb,  to  discover  it  was  written  in,  from  cover 
to  cover,  and  in  a  feminine  hand.  His  eye  rested 
on  a  paragraph,  beginning,  "  I  am  sad  to-day  and 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  151 

heavy  at  heart ;  "  then  another,  "  I  have  decided  to 
trust  him  to  my  tender  mercies —  That  was 

enough.  He  glanced  around  to  see  if  he  had 
been  observed,  then  quickly  placed  the  book  in  his 
pocket. 

The  principal  difference  between  woman's  curi- 
osity and  man's  is  that  a  woman's  is  nearer  the  sur- 
face and  asserts  itself  more  readily.  It  is  in  man  to 
an  equal  extent,  only  not  so  easily  aroused.  He 
dwelt  on  the  strange  combination  of  a  woman's  diary 
written  between  covers  bearing  his  own  name,  and  its 
reaching  him  in  a  way  so  mysterious  as  to  be  un- 
fathomable. 

Later,  he  sought  the  sanctity  of  his  own  room,  and 
from  the  care  and  composure  with  which  he  arranged 
himself  in  a  chair,  it  was  evident  a  reverie  of  some 
length  was  anticipated. 

That  wonderful  sensation,  felt  just  as  an  intense 
curiosity  is  being  gratified,  was  abruptly  disturbed 
when  in  the  opening  sentence  he  read,  "  And  through 

it  all,  I  have  waited  for  your  owner  to  come ' 

He  closed  and  lowered  the  book.  For  what  reason 
under  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven  had  she  chosen  so 
strange  a  way  for  communicating  with  him?  Why, 
after  the  years  of  suffering  such  as  he  had  under- 
gone, was  his  long  struggle  for  peace  of  mind  to  be 
baffled,  and  he  tripped  at  the  very  portals  of  the 
goal?  Deep  down  in  his  breast  an  old  sore  began  to 
twitch,  to  throb,  to  pain,  to  fester.  Was  the  new 
blood  in  his  veins  to  be  displaced  by  the  bitter  excre- 
tions of  past  memories? 


152  TAMAM 

Oh !  human  nature,  with  your  unpreconceived  tend- 
encies, through  what  reason  was  there  interpolated 
into  your  scheme  of  life  the  avenging  spirit  of  mortal 
man? 

Again  he  let  the  leaves  fly  from  the  ball  of  his 
thumb,  to  find  a  blank  space  at  the  end,  where  he  in- 
tended to  write,  "  He  who  laughs  last "  It  was 

there  his  eye  rested  on  the  paragraph,  "  Help  me 
keep  my  secret  from  the  heartless  world,  and  through 
pity  keep  it  from  him.  I  pray  not  to  die  of  a  broken 

heart,  from  his  learning  of  my  love "  Again  he 

instinctively  glanced  about  to  see  if  he  was  observed 
while  replacing  the  book  in  his  pocket. 

What  was  he  to  understand?  She  certainly  had 
not  sent  to  him  what  he  felt  must  be  her  life-secrets. 
Another  must  have  done  that.  They  had  not  ex- 
changed communications  since  that  evening  in  the 
graveyard  more  than  ten  years  before.  He  was  con- 
scious of  having  written  one  or  more  letters  to  her 
during  this  interval,  but  his  courage  invariably  failed 
before  sending  them.  The  suggestion  forced  itself 
upon  him  that  this  book  had  been  found  among  her 
possessions,  and  bearing  his  name  had  been  mailed  to 
him,  while  she  at  that  moment  was  filling  the  souls  of 
her  angel  companions  with  the  melody  of  her  mar- 
velous laughter  as  she  looked  down  upon  him.  Who 
would  have  sent  him  the  book,  knowing  that  it  con- 
tained her  plea  that  these  secrets  be  kept?  No  one, 
surely,  therefore  the  secrets  up  to  that  time  must 
have  been  safe.  His  manhood  was  strong  and  had 
never  failed  him  in  a  crisis. 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  153 

If  her  secrets  were  up  to  that  time  safe,  they 
should  continue  so,  and  in  no  keeping  more  trusted 
than  his  own.  Meditation  made  him  feel  so  sure 
as  to  the  correctness  of  his  deduction  that  he  re- 
served for  himself  the  doubt  one  always  entertains 
regarding  an  unverified  belief. 

A  balm  of  hallowed  memories  soothed  the  old  sore, 
and,  pervaded  with  the  spirit  of  forgiveness,  he  pic- 
tured her  in  the  regal  splendor  of  her  beauty,  and  no 
sense  of  anguish  filled  his  breast.  He  arose  and 
mechanically  went  through  the  performance  of  some 
routine  duties,  utterly  devoid  of  his  usual  zest.  Upon 
retiring  that  night  he  soon  reached  the  haven  of  rest- 
ful sleep,  only  to  awaken  after  a  few  hours  and  find 
himself  in  a  flood  of  thought.  He  determined  to 
be  no  sheep-herder;  he  had  done  that  once  before. 
If  sleep  did  not  seek  him,  he  would  scorn  it.  He 
completely  dressed  himself,  after  his  usual  manner, 
for  the  day;  and  before  the  eastern  horizon  had 
dissolved  into  the  shell-like  tints  of  dawn,  he  had 
read  the  book  from  cover  to  cover,  nor  had  he  sacri- 
ficed one  iota  of  his  manhood. 

If  his  movements  became  varied  after  this,  the 
widow  failed  to  take  .notice.  She  was  accustomed  to 
his  eccentricities,  knowing  he  cultivated  them.  Had 
she  been  sufficiently  well  observant  she  would  have 
learned  he  had  obtained  a  small  pocket  note-book; 
that  it  bore  no  name  upon  its  cover,  nor  the  word 
"  diary."  She  would  have  learned  further  that  he 
carried  it  with  him,  and  at  times  wrote  in  it.  She 
did,  however,  notice  a  tenderness  in  his  speech,  and 


154  TAMAM 

once  detected  a  sigh  escaping  his  lips.  What  was 
more,  she  saw,  sticking  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  one 
of  the  very  earliest  spring  violets.  She  feared  he 
was  becoming  restless,  but  knew  full  well  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  or  said,  and  she  trusted  his  per- 
sonality would  be  able  to  dispel  any  depression  that 
might  be  overshadowing  his  apparently  contented 
life. 

In  the  very  foremost  hours  of  a  crisp  spring  morn- 
ing, winter,  in  its  dying  gasp,  had  once  more  exhaled 
its  frosty  breath,  and  everything  was  covered  with 
white.  The  air  crackled  with  its  overcharge  of  static 
ether.  Over  the  frozen  ground  came  rolling  along 
in  wonderful  clearness  the  sounds  from  crowing  cocks, 
miles  away.  It  seemed  that  nature  was  supplying 
a  tonic  to  the  enervated  life  which  had  weathered  her 
winter. 

He,  too,  was  ready  to  partake  of  this  tonic,  and 
started  for  a  nearby  hill  to  watch  the  rising  of  the 
sun.  A  faithful  old  dog  left  its  bed  to  join  in  the 
walk,  but  soon  stopped,  wrinkled  its  nose  in  em- 
barrassment, wagged  itself  into  the  form  of  the  letter 
"  S,"  by  way  of  apology,  then  grudgingly  put  each 
foot  on  the  frosted  grass  until  it  reached  the  warm 
straw  in  the  box. 

As  he  walked  on,  he  blew  out  his  breath  into  the 
chilled  air  in  little  steam-like  clouds,  sometimes  con- 
tracting his  lips  to  form  a  small  orifice  and  giving 
intermittent  escapement  noises,  as  though  once  again 
a  youthful  steam  engine ;  then,  with  mouth  wide  open, 
emitting  in  puffs  and  clouds  that  delicious  smoke  in 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  155 

which  every  boy  has  indulged  in  the  reveries  of  his 
childhood. 

The  sallow  shading  of  the  east  was  fast  being  dis- 
sipated into  the  faintly  yellow  and  leaden  streaks  of 
the  new-born  day.  On  he  came,  watching  the  streaks 
grow  shorter  and  the  sky  take  on  its  tallow  cast  as 
the  pale  face  of  the  sun  rose  above  the  horizon.  The 
grandeur  of  the  rising  sun  is  more  a  poetic  thought 
than  a  truth. 

His  attention  was  diverted  from  the  sunrise  by  see- 
ing a  man  crawl  out  of  a  hollow  tree,  stretch  both 
arms,  holding  them  high  above  the  shoulders,  as  a 
bird  with  lifted  wings,  and  at  the  same  time  give  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction  as  he  exhaled  a  deep-drawn 
breath.  Neither  ceasing  in  the  blowing  of  his  steam 
clouds,  nor  changing  his  pace,  he  veered  his  course 
so  as  to  appear  his  special  mission  was  to  go  to  that 
tree.  Nearing  it,  he  addressed  the  surprised  man, 
who  stood  blinking  through  embarrassment  and 
sleepiness. 

"  Why  is  a  sleepy  old  rooster  like  you  trying  to 
crow  this  time  in  the  morning?  You  must  have 
roosted  well  to  be  sleeping  so  late.  I  didn't  know 
I  made  my  guests  spend  their  nights  out  in  the 
woods ;  couldn't  you  find  the  latch  string,  or  climb 
in  the  window?  "  After  which  remark  he  made  the 
woodland  ring  with  laughter. 

The  blinking  eyes  quickened,  and  the  tramp's  face 
wrinkled  into  a  smile  as  he  replied,  "  The  old  tree 
opened  its  heart  to  me,  let  me  go  into  its  trunk, 
stood  watch  like  a  dog  while  I  slept,  and  woke  me 


156  TAMAM 

with  its  bark,  as  you  came  up  " — at  the  same  time 
picking  pieces  of  trash  from  beneath  his  shirt  collar. 
Again  the  woodland  rang  with  laughter,  after  which 
the  tramp  grinned  a  reply  to  an  invitation  for  break- 
fast. 

It  is  a  happy  fate  that  brings  two  lonely  souls  to- 
gether, and  a  remarkable  fate  that  brought  these 
two,  so  different  and  yet  so  similar.  They  were 
counterparts  in  stature,  both  in  the  prime  of  life,  yet 
a  study  of  the  footprints  they  left  on  the  frosted 
grass  would  have  revealed  their  difference  in  char- 
acter. One  line  of  prints  was  clear  cut  and  defined, 
showing  elasticity  in  movement ;  in  the  other,  midway 
between  prints,  was  the  gouge  mark  of  a  toe,  as  one 
makes  when  shambling. 

Incongruous  as  it  may  seem,  each  had  chosen  to 
isolate  himself  from  what  both  would  have  termed  the 
inconsistencies  of  their  fellow-creatures.  One,  from 
an  inborn  apathy  for  idleness,  the  other,  from  the 
same  apathy  for  work.  In  the  philosophy  of  one, 
the  populous  world  restricted  his  activities ;  in  that  of 
the  other,  it  restricted  his  leisure.  The  two,  reason- 
ing from  diametrically  opposite  points  of  view,  had 
reached  the  same  conclusion.  Can  any  deduction  be 
more  logically  obtained? 

There  are  few  who  know  the  delights  of  the  re- 
•cluse,  few  who  possess  enough  individuality  to  dwell 
in  the  realm  of  their  own  personality  and  find  them- 
selves sufficiently  companionable. 

Among  the  untold  forms  of  worship  is  a  small  sect 
who  call  themselves  "  Sitters."  They  constitute  so 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  157 

infinitesimal  a  part  of  the  human  race  they  are  not 
reckoned  with  in  the  catalogue  of  religions.  The 
creed  of  the  "  Sitter  "  is  self-adoration.  In  prac- 
tice they  seek  retirement,  and  "  sit  "  each  day  while 
the  sun  is  crossing  the  meridian.  During  this  time 
they  absolve  themselves  from  every  thought  common 
to  the  association  of  their  daily  pursuits,  and  view 
themselves  in  magnificent  isolation  against  the  great 
background  of  creative  nature.  The  consolation  to 
be  found  in  a  glance  so  retrospective,  at  one's  own 
personality,  is  known  only  to  those  strong  in  the 
faith.  The  "  sitter  "  is  not  selfish,  only  human.  To 
him  the  spark  of  existence  that  glows  in  his  being  is 
the  one  thing  in  the  incomprehensible  vastness  of 
the  universe  that  is  absolutely  indispensable  to  his 
happiness,  and  he  worships  that  spark. 

When  the  men  had  reached  the  cabin,  each,  with 
due  respect  to  the  philosophy  of  the  other,  followed 
the  bend  of  his  own  inclination.  While  one  sought 
the  nearest  resemblance  to  an  easy  chair,  the  other 
got  out  the  paraphernalia  essential  for  preparing  a 
bachelor's  breakfast;  one  talked  loudly,  freely,  face- 
tiously, incessantly ;  the  other,  in  subdued  chuckling 
monotones.  Each  one  looked  upon  the  other  with 
unbridled  curiosity,  each  equally  gratified  in  supply- 
ing interest  to  the  other;  in  fact,  two  affinities,  that 
must  have  long  sought  each  other,  originating  at  the 
two  extremes  of  human  nature. 

Fast  was  the  tantalizing  fragrance  of  frying 
bacon  and  the  aroma  of  strong  coffee  mellowing  the 
ordinate  sympathies  of  each  for  the  other's  stomach, 


158  TAMAM 

until  finally,  two  more  thoroughly  congenial  spirits 
never  dispensed  and  partook  of  the  same  hospitality. 

After  breakfast  the  guest  extracted  a  pipe  from 
the  lining  of  his  clothes,  while  the  host  began  a 
series  of  leading  personal  questions,  which  were 
answered  without  hesitation. 

"  Yes,"  the  guest  replied,  he  had  worked,  and,  when 
he  did,  could  lay  brick  to  the  "  Queen's  taste."  The 
habit,  though,  had  been  easily  overcome.  He  had 
eaten  of  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  rich  man's 
table,  and  had  dined  in  homes  where  they  measured 
time  by  the  movement  of  a  shadow  on  the  puncheon 
floor.  He  was  fully  awake  to  the  common  fancy 
that  men  of  his  profession  are  imbued  with  a  love 
for  poetry  and  song;  in  consequence,  could  quote 
"  snatches  "  from  Burns.  He  knew  how  to  explain 
that  "  carelessness  in  sleeping  on  the  weather  side 
of  haystacks,"  etc.,  etc.  And  so  the  two  men  passed 
a  morning  in  the  exchange  of  remarkable  experi- 
ences, being  remarkable  in  that  the  exchange  was 
confined  entirely  to  the  experiences  of  the  guest. 

The  host  suggested  the  substitution  of  one  of  his 
own  abandoned  coats  for  that  worn  by  his  guest, 
which  suggestion,  together  with  the  coat,  was  cheer- 
fully accepted.  It  was  well  past  the  time  for  doing 
the  daily  chores,  and  the  host,  extending  an  invitation 
to  the  guest  to  accompany  him,  proceeded  to  lead  the 
way.  What  could  the  guest  do  but  follow? 

As  the  chill  of  the  morning  diminished,  the  host 
removed  his  coat  and  hung  it  on  the  fence.  The 
guest  felt  it  the  part  of  policy  to  imitate  in  this  prep- 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  159 

aration.  After  a  series  of  various  duties,  in  which 
the  guest  appeared  not  to  comprehend  what  was  to 
be  done  until  the  task  was  nearly  completed,  the  men 
replaced  their  coats,  and  with  the  profuse  acknowl- 
edgments of  each  as  to  the  pleasure  the  other  had 
afforded,  separated. 

The  guest  took  up  his  endless  journey,  ever  con- 
sistent with  his  philosophy,  having  neither  a  care  for 
the  past  nor  a  thought  for  the  morrow ;  asking  noth- 
ing, with  nothing  to  give  in  return,  believing  himself 
a  legitimate  heir  to  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  though 
with  no  intention  to  assert  his  claim,  if  disputed; 
recognizing  himself  a  benefit  to  humanity,  in  that  he 
made  the  number  one  less  in  the  entries  for  the  great 
race  of  human  strife  where  fellow-men  sought  to 
crush  each  other  beneath  the  weight  of  their  own 
ambitions.  He  was  satisfied  to  imbibe  the  morning 
freshness  of  a  care-free  day,  and,  like  the  lilies  that 
neither  toil  nor  spin  but  quench  their  thirst  with  the 
spirit  of  Nature's  bounty,  he  drank  such  of  the  spirit 
of  generosity  as  he  could  drain  from  fellow-creatures 
through  the  open  frankness  of  his  appeal. 

So  he  passes  on  through  the  world  of  men  and 
things,  neither  leaving  footprints  on  the  sands  nor 
scarring  himself  against  the  stern  realities  of  life. 


A  city  of  to-day  is  remarkable  in  its  resemblance 
to  a  thing  of  life;  with  veins  through  which  the  cor- 
puscle-like mass  of  humanity  reach  its  heart;  vast 
arteries  through  which  they  surge  to  its  uttermost 


160  TAMAM 

parts  when  the  brain  has  tired  at  the  close  of  the 
day;  a  nature  changeable  as  the  winds,  only  too 
humanlike,  charitable  to  excess,  then  mired  in  the 
stagnation  of  its  selfishness ;  feverish  with  the  ex- 
citement of  either  pageant  or  panic,  or  chilled  with 
indifference  as  to  the  elements  which  enter  into  the 
constitution  of  its  conglomerate  self ;  for  the  moment 
throbbing  in  the  intensity  of  action,  again  sleeping 
with  slow  and  measured  pulsation,  pulsation  even 
more  sensitive  than  in  a  creature  of  life.  You  can 
feel  the  heart-beats  through  its  innumerable  arms ; 
its  intellectuality  through  the  arm  of  the  press ; 
ostentation,  through  the  arm  of  its  fashion ;  charity, 
through  the  arm  of  its  benefactions ;  morals,  through 
the  arm  of  its  society ;  health,  through  the  arm  of  its 
sanitariums. 

Go  through  the  labyrinth  of  a  city's  thorough- 
fares, with  its  endless  throng  of  humanity  making 
you  feel  afloat  on  a  human  sea,  and  where  is  a  place 
more  lonely?  Where  is  a  place  more  hushed  in  the 
stillness  of  its  own  incessant  uttering  of  sounds  less 
familiar  to  the  human  heart?  If  the  Babel-like  dron- 
ing of  incoherent  articulations  stupefy  and  produce 
dilemma  in  your  brain,  you  will  be  jostled  and 
trampled  by  the  giant  myriapod  with  human  legs,  or 
crushed  by  the  wheels  of  impatient  traffic.  Nor  is 
there  charity  enough  in  all  that  sea  for  one  wave  to 
bear  you  on  its  crest  from  out  of  the  human  mael- 
strom and  moisten  your  temple  with  a  spray  of  kind- 
ness. 

In  the  unconsciousness  of  your  delirium  you  will  lie 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  161 

as  you  have  fallen,  while  morbid  curiosity  compels 
the  craning  and  elongation  of  necks  for  a  glance  at 
your  nostrils  in  their  muscular  contortions,  instinc- 
tively endeavoring  to  obtain  that  precious  life-giving 
oxygen  which  your  fellowmen  are  stealing,  as  they 
crowd  around,  with  never  a  thought  of  a  helping 
hand.  Some  one,  in  the  garb  of  public  benefactor, 
may  notify  the  health  department,  and  very  soon  the 
crowd  will  give  way  before  the  clanging  of  alarms. 
There  will  be  no  waiting  to  learn  your  name  or  pref- 
erence regarding  your  disposition,  for  you  have  sud- 
denly become  the  city's  "  ward ;"  and,  irrespective 
of  your  degree  of  social  elevation  or  degradation, 
you  will  be  lifted  with  that  wonderful  tenderness  ac- 
quired through  experience,  rather  than  sympathy,  to 
be  whirled  away  to  the  hospital. 

Out  from  the  loneliness  of  the  crowded  street  with 
its  noise  and  confusion,  and  never  a  responsive  look, 
you  are  ushered  into  surroundings  where  every 
thought  is  for  your  comfort,  every  face  one  of  sym- 
pathy, and  every  soul  your  servant. 

If  you  fail  to  respond,  a  record  is  made  of  your 
personal  appearance,  and  any  belongings  are  de- 
posited as  an  aid  for  your  identification.  You  will 
then  be  given  a  serial  number  and  laid  to  rest  in  one 
of  those  long,  unsymmetrical  rows  in  the  potter's 
field,  those  long  rows  the  queer  old  grave-digger 
makes. 

Of  modern  inventions  for  the  benefit  of  mankind 
the  hospital  stands  first,  though  for  it  we  have  a 
natural  antipathy,  and  its  mention  sends  a  shiver 


162  TAMAM 

through  us.  With  it  we  associate  the  "  stretcher," 
the  surgeon's  knife,  the  penetrating  odors  from  anti- 
septics, and  all  those  dreaded  appliances  which,  even 
though  mercifully  designed  for  the  alleviation  of 
human  suffering,  fill  us  with  mortal  fear.  But  once 
you  have  been  carried  across  its  threshold,  your  very 
prejudices  will  have  made  you  a  convert  as  to  the  in- 
estimable value  in  this  branch  of  a  city's  public  in- 
stitutions. 

Follow  the  course  of  those  who  make  their  life- 
work  within  hospital  walls,  and  there  will  be  revealed 
to  you  a  phase  of  character  totally  inconsistent  with 
the  walks  of  life  as  you  know  them.  Is  it  conceiv- 
able there  are  those  who  deliberately  take  up  the 
work  in  a  hospital  ward,  with  its  manifold  responsi- 
bilities and  countless  requirements,  to  battle  with  all 
the  idiosyncrasies  possessed  by  human  nature,  to 
stand  as  the  strongest  ally  of  a  human  life  in  its 
fight  against  death,  this  in  full  knowledge  that  vic- 
tory brings  neither  reward  nor  release,  and  that  de- 
feat but  calls  for  a  multiplied  effort?  In  whom  do 
we  find  this  remarkable  form  of  human  stamina,  this 
ceaseless  vitality,  this  concentration  of  purpose  with- 
out end?  Not  in  the  boasted  strength  of  man,  but 
in  the  purported  frailness  of  woman. 

The  myths  of  the  past  come  to  us  as  legacies  in 
untold  forms,  and  as  their  hidden  meaning  is  revealed, 
we  wonder  if  the  genius  lies  with  the  originator  of 
the  myth  or  is  that  of  our  own  self.  At  any  rate, 
we  love  myths,  if  for  nothing  else,  for  their  subtlety 
of  expression. 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  163 

Since  Pandora  opened  the  box  and  saw  the  swarm 
of  evil  spirits  take  flight,  and  closed  the  lid  in  time  to 
stop  only  one  little  weak  spirit  who  called  herself 
"  Hope,"  since  that  time,  at  some  period  of  its  exist- 
ence, every  human  life  has  clutched  at  the  flimsy 
gauze-like  skirts  of  "  Hope."  And  so  often  has  the 
mazy  garment  of  cob  web-like  weave  trailed  on 
through  stiffened  fingers,  we  are  prone  to  raise  the 
lid  for  just  one  more  peep,  that  it  may  perchance 
reveal  the  true  guise  of  the  little  self-styled  spirit. 

How  easily  we  recognize  the  variegated  garbs  of 
those  who  escaped !  There  is  "  Disappointment  " 
trailing  her  long  octopus-like  streamers,  as  though 
she  had  a  hand  to  grasp  from  us  the  goal  of  every 
ambition.  There  is  "  Age,"  with  her  flour-dipped 
fingers  and  the  deceitful  garb  of  adoration,  ever 
anxious  to  stroke  our  heads.  There  is  "  Physical- 
ills,"  in  her  myriad  of  diversified  forms,  ever  flaunt- 
ing in  our  faces  the  incomprehensibility  of  her  tech- 
nical nomenclature.  There  is  "  Sorrow,"  with  the 
shroud  in  one  hand,  while  in  the  other  she  has  a  cup 
of  bitter  tears  to  stain  our  cheek  and  inflame  our 
eyes  until,  blinded,  we  grope  in  the  dark  for  "  Hope," 
whose  slender  form  is  so  mysteriously  concealed. 

The  world  is  as  thoroughly  familiar  with  those 
spirits  that  Pandora  released  as  it  is  unfamiliar  with 
the  single  one  held  captive,  and  the  midnight  oil  of 
reason  has  long  been  burned  in  a  vain  effort  to  deter- 
mine the  identity  of  this  little  spirit.  But  some  day 
another  Pandora  may  come;  and  should  she  open  the 
lid,  for  only  the  least  bit  of  a  peep,  she  will  discover 


164  TAMAM 

the  little  spirit  has  developed  a  countenance  wonder- 
fully serious,  responsive  though  resolute,  tolerant 
though  deterrent,  and  from  her  presence  will  emanate 
an  influence  seductive  of  our  complete  reliance.  This 
little  spirit,  "  Hope,"  will  be  found  to  have  clothed 
herself  in  a  garb  of  immaculate  white,  emulating  the 
spotless  guise  of  a  nurse. 

Is  it  strange  that  in  the  confines  of  a  hospital,  a 
place  we  enter  with  trepidation  and  speculative  sus- 
picion, is  it  strange  that  "  Hope  "  has  taken  up  her 
abode  there?  Where  could  we  need  her  more? 
There,  where  acts  of  heroism  are  of  such  daily  oc- 
currence, they  are  merely  entered  in  a  tabulated 
record ;  where  the  daily  display  of  marvelous  fortitude 
brings  to  us  the  consciousness  of  our  own  weakness, 
there  is  where  we  need  the  little  spirit,  and  once  we 
have  looked  into  her  face  we  know  her. 

There  is  a  certain  factor  in  the  make-up  of  life 
we  term  "  sympathy."  Were  it  necessary  to  give  a 
definition  to  this  word,  it  could  be  defined  as  that 
mental  condition  capable  of  being  communicated  be- 
tween two  natures  when  in  a  state  of  mutual  equilib- 
rium. There  is  no  word  in  the  language  of  tongues 
meaning  more,  nor  one  whose  meaning  has  become 
more  distorted.  Without  sympathy  there  would  be 
no  hope;  hope  dwells  only  in  the  human  breast,  and 
without  it  no  breast  would  be  human. 

Hope  is  the  richest  of  treasures.  It  is  only  with 
bated  breath  we  ask,  "  Has  he  lost  hope?  " 

Stand  by  the  sick  bed  of  a  loved  one  whose  drops 
of  life-blood  are  ebbing;  and  though  the  bitterest  of 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  165 

anguish  floods  your  breast,  yet  this  very  anguish 
serves  as  a  narcotic  to  hold  you  in  complacent  calm- 
ness. But  let  one  whisper  the  single  word  "  hope," 
and  how  quickly  the  bonds  break.  One  scintilla  of 
hope  changes  your  flood  of  despair  into  tears  of  joy, 
until  they  stream  down  your  cheek.  Despair  may  be 
confined  to  the  deadliness  of  inward  bleeding,  but  the 
spring  of  hope  in  the  human  breast  must  find  an 
outlet. 

Life  in  itself  is  nothing.  The  very  multitudinous 
forms  in  which  it  exists  makes  it  so.  It  is  common 
to  every  form  in  the  lexicon  of  the  animal  world.  It 
is  no  more  to  the  bird  of  beautiful  plumage  that 
soars  in  the  blue  of  the  sky,  than  to  the  loathsome 
creature,  in  its  coat  of  slime,  that  grovels  on  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.  Nothing  so  common  can  be  of 
value.  It  is  only  the  little  trait  of  character  called 
"  human  "  that  lends  a  value  to  life.  And  this  same 
little  "  trait,"  whether  it  waxens  to  giant  strength  or 
shrivels  to  a  pygmy  in  size,  has,  since  the  creation 
of  man,  sought  its  daily  nourishment  from  the  hand 
of  the  little  spirit  that  Pandora  retained. 

"  Variety  is  the  spice  of  life  "  is  a  time-worn  ex- 
pression more  or  less  enigmatical  in  meaning.  It  is 
a  quotation  ever  appropriate  in  justification  of  the 
multifarious  acts  of  man,  and  serves  as  an  apology 
for  every  form  of  debauchery.  The  world  of  mean- 
ing oftentimes  clothed  in  homely  slang  is  the  result 
of  simile  that  has  passed  through  the  transcendent 
steps  of  decapitation  until  the  stage  of  aphorism  is 
reached.  For  this  reason  it  becomes  necessary  to 


166  TAMAM 

reclothe  the  thought,  that  its  true  sense  may  be  dis- 
sociated from  its  distortion. 

Diversification  is  a  cardinal  essential  in  the  superior 
development  of  human  life.  Whether  it  be  in  the 
sphere  intellectual,  or  merely  in  the  amplified  forms 
that  compose  the  natural  craving  of  a  pent-up  spirit, 
the  absence  of  diversity  tends  to  a  morbid  condition 
of  mind  and  body.  Rather  than  the  spice,  it  is  the 
tonic,  the  restorer  of  depleted  individuality.  The 
form  it  assumes  varies  with  the  inherent  proclivities 
of  the  individual.  Religion  is  a  common  form  of 
diversity,  and  has  served  to  alleviate  the  hide-bound 
condition  of  mankind  from  its  beginning.  If  it  were 
nothing  more  than  diversity,  religion  would  well 
serve  a  purpose.  The  sentiment  in  our  nature 
creates  a  desire  for  secret  communion.  Our  con- 
science deserves  a  recipient  for  its  outpouring;  our 
burdens  assume  such  proportions  they  must  be  rested, 
and  to  all  purposes  of  human  intent  it  is  immaterial 
whether  they  be  deposited  at  the  feet  of  a  wooden 
god  or  a  living  intermediary,  or  even  diffused 
through  fervent  appeals  to  the  mysterious  conceptor 
of  our  destiny. 

A  deplorable  form  of  diversification  is  that  wherein 
it  appeals  to  the  baser  instincts  of  human  passion. 
Through  this  form,  the  motives  of  intemperance,  im- 
morality and  countless  dissipations  find  room  for 
mature  growth.  Such  forms  become  more  properly 
"  the  spice  "  for  an  inordinate  appetite. 

An  additional  form  which  diversity  assumes  is 
through  its  appeal  to  the  nobler  instincts.  Here  it 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  167 

is  the  desire  of  human  nature  in  its  frailness  to  de- 
velop strength  through  the  uplifting  of  its  fellow- 
creatures  ;  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of  others  from 
the  scantiness  of  their  own ;  to  lend  to  those  depleted 
in  strength  the  whole  of  their  own  inadequate 
amount. 

Diversification  is  a  natural  desire,  and  that  at 
times  it  leads  to  paths  of  self-sacrifice,  even  though 
it  be  to  extinguish  the  secret  fire  of  a  smouldering 
disappointment,  it  is  well  for  mankind  there  are 
those  strong  in  heart,  even  though  clothed  in  fem- 
inine frailness,  who  take  on  the  garb  of  immaculate 
white,  and  create,  in  themselves,  a  habitude  for  the 
frail  little  spirit,  "  Hope." 


In  the  midst  of  the  activities  of  a  certain  charity 
hospital,  where  the  call  for  human  stamina  on  the 
part  of  the  nurses  is  greatest,  there  moved  the  post- 
humous daughter  in  her  garb  of  immaculate  white. 

Just  how  it  comes  that  a  small  white  cap  comprises 
part  of  a  nurse's  uniform  is  of  no  consequence.  The 
cap  she  wore,  and  the  wonderful  black  hair  that 
laved  her  temples  combined  to  produce  an  effect 
suggesting  the  possibility,  either  the  cap  or  the 
hair  had  been  designed,  the  one  for  the  other.  There 
was  always  a  faint  suggestion  she  wore  the  cap  for 
effect.  The  hair  never  appeared  to  have  been  re- 
cently fixed,  or  to  need  fixing,  but  remained  at  that 
point  where  a  stray  ringlet  extricates  itself  from  the 
combs  to  steal  over  the  face  so  she  must  push  it 


168  TAMAM 

back  while  you  watch  it  stealthily  slide  down  again. 
The  softened  color  in  the  full  flush  of  her  face  had 
been  fixed  by  the  mordant  time,  and  neither  the 
strain  of  activities  nor  the  bleaching  atmosphere  of 
deodorants,  in  which  she  lived,  brought  the  blanch 
into  her  cheek.  This  in  itself  appeared  as  though 
for  effect,  for  the  contrast  against  her  garb  of  white, 
as  she  moved  in  the  midst  of  colorless  faces,  was 
startling. 

Was  the  low  form  of  the  unadorned  collar  of  a 
nurse's  uniform  designed  to  display  the  classic  lines 
of  her  neck  and  throat,  or  was  it  merely  a  coinci- 
dence ? 

A  child  sees  its  mother  first  when  resting  in  her 
arms,  is  why  the  moulder  of  the  feminine  face 
fashioned  it  from  that  point.  As  seen  from  there, 
the  downcast  position  of  the  eyes  produces  that 
expression  in  the  face  for  which  the  artist  strives 
when  portraying  "  motherly  adoration."  So,  was 
it  for  effect,  that  as  she  stood  at  the  bedside  of  pros- 
trate patients,  administering  to  their  wants,  if  when 
she  leaned  over  them  she  chanced  to  rest  in  that 
position  where  the  beauty  of  the  lines  of  her  throat 
and  neck  were  most  enhanced,  and  the  depths  of  blue 
were  deepened  by  the  downcasting  of  her  eyes  ?  And 
was  it  for  effect,  when  in  response  to  voices  coming 
from  irritated  throats  and  swollen  tongues  whose 
words  seemed  to  scratch  as  though  they  had  sharp 
corners,  that  she  replied  in  tones  wonderfully  modu- 
lated and  of  that  marvelous  quality,  such  that  every 
ear  catching  the  sound  would  turn  toward  her?  On 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  169 

the  whole,  was  it  for  effect,  that  from  the  slough  of 
despond,  wherein  smouldered  the  consuming  fire 
of  a  secret  love,  she  sought  diversification  where  the 
romance  of  life  is  so  thoroughly  eclipsed  by  the 
strangeness  of  its  realities?  If  so,  her  conceit  of 
vanity  was  impelled  through  motives  in  which  the 
mental  beauty  was  only  equalled  by  that  in  her  face. 

Her  life  was  of  the  hospital  routine,  which  means 
the  reverse  of  what  it  implies ;  for  in  a  hospital  there 
is  no  routine ;  only  an  endless  sequence  of  changes. 
If  she  gave  the  soul  of  her  sympathy  to  a  strange 
face,  before  the  face  became  familiar  it  would  vanish. 
The  requirements  of  one  day  involved  a  cycle  of 
time,  rather  than  the  life  of  a  nurse,  before  repeti- 
tion. The  only  routine  was  in  the  ceaselessness  of 
the  activities,  save,  perhaps,  the  "  social  hour  "  fol- 
lowing tea.  Here  was  the  first  mark  of  punctuation 
in  the  daily  sentence. 

Feminine  nature  demands  the  exchange  of  con- 
fidences, confidences  which  are  not  intended  to  be 
kept,  but  to  be  passed  along  as  such.  This  has 
led  to  such  exchanges,  among  women,  being  called 
gossip.  If  it  is  gossip,  this  is  what  "  spice  "  the 
white-garbed  incarnations  of  hope  have  to  flavor  the 
unpalatableness  of  their  daily  mental  food.  One  of 
the  prerequisites  of  a  hospital  nurse  is  the  ability  to 
throw  off  the  inevitable  depression  consequent  from 
a  day's  environment,  such  as  comprises  their  lives, 
and  for  the  time  being  indulge  themselves  in  those 
frivolous  ways  which  only  a  woman  knows. 

It  was  seldom  this  exchange  of  confidences  partook 


170  TAMAM 

of  a  serious  nature  or  involved  the  graver  episodes 
of  the  day,  for  of  these  there  would  be  no  end ;  but 
the  fatal  termination  of  an  "  unidentified  "  was  a  sub- 
ject always  admissible,  since  feminine  nature  loves  to 
clothe  mystery  in  romance,  if  its  structure  is  but 
strong  enough  to  bear  the  weight  of  a  garb  ever  so 
light. 

When  the  clanging  of  alarms  prefaced  the  en- 
trance into  the  hospital  of  a  man  who,  though  in  a 
state  of  unconsciousness,  was  fair  in  face  and  in  the 
prime  of  life,  even  if  his  personal  apparel  was  wretch- 
edly disheveled  and  his  breath  foul  with  the  deadened 
odor  of  liquor,  there  was  the  usual  interest  when 
he  had  been  pronounced  "  unknown."  The  infor- 
mation accompanying  was  to  the  effect  that  owing 
to  his  state  of  intoxication  he  had  been  run  down 
in  the  street.  Could  it  be  possible  he  had  endeavored 
to  stop  a  fleeing  horse  which  was  threatening  every 
life  in  the  path  of  its  mad  rush?  There  was  no 
harm  in  letting  this  speculative  covering  serve  as  his 
shroud,  for  he  never  regained  consciousness,  but 
passed  through  the  mortal  portals  of  this  world  and 
entered  upon  the  unknown  journey  beyond  with  no 
designation  other  than  a  serial  number.  Had  he 
fulfilled  no  purpose  in  life,  in  his  death  he  had  served 
to  add  a  few  cents  extra  to  the  meagre  earnings  of 
the  potter's  field  grave-digger. 

While  this  particular  "  unidentified "  was  inter- 
esting in  his  own  right,  what  made  him  more  so  was 
the  nature  of  his  personal  possessions,  among  which 
there  was  a  small  pocket  note-book  bearing  no  name 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  171 

though  written  through.  It  was  this  one  of  the 
nurses  had  gotten  from  the  collection  of  his  "  Articles 
for  Identification  "  and  was  reading  aloud  to  a  num- 
ber of  eager  listeners,  who  had  gathered  for  the 
social  hour. 

"  When  I  look  into  the  deep  of  the  azured  heavens, 
is  it  the  depths  in  the  blue  of  your  eyes  that  I  see? 

"  Is  each  curling  cloud  in  its  phantasmic  life  a 
ringlet  that  plays  o'er  your  brow? 

"  And  the  soft  voice  of  nature,  in  the  hush  of  the 
wind  and  the  ripple  of  the  brook,  does  it  come  from 
your  lips? 

"  Is  each  life-giving  breeze,  that  kisses  my  face 
and  deposits  the  balm  of  its  solace,  the  breath  that 
went  out  with  your  spirit? 

"  Is  the  perfume  of  flowers  and  their  glory  of 
raiment  but  the  visible  fragrance  of  your  scented 
presence? 

"  Is  it  your  call  that  brings  me  to  the  placid  calm 
of  solitude,  and  at  this  trysting  place  is  it  you  who 
entrances  me  with  your  smile  through  the  song  of 
birds?" 

The  reader  paused,  and  the  stillness  which  had 
gone  throughout  the  room  was  broken  by  the  unison 
of  released  breaths.  An  incipient  flutter  of  excite- 
ment was  arrested  as  the  reader  lifted  her  voice  in 
continuing : 

"  With  you,  there  is  no  night    and  its  spectre-like 


172  TAMAM 

shadows  stealing  through  the  gleaming  rays  of  hope ; 
no  strife,  jealousy,  frustration  of  purpose;  no  jar, 
turmoil,  din  and  bewilderment ;  no  burdens  of  sorrow 
to  crush  the  frailness  of  the  human  breast ;  no  smoth- 
ering loneliness  to  stifle  the  weakness  of  human  exist- 
ence; but  through  the  folds  of  that  nebulous  veil  of 
mystery,  you  look  into  the  lacerated  hearts  and 
wearied  breasts  of  those  who  are  tossed  on  billows 
of  anguish,  and  hear  the  secret  cry  of  earthly  crea- 
tures as  they  drain  the  bitter  dregs  of  desolation 
from  their  cup  of  sorrow,  while  benign  in  counte- 
nance you  smile  in  the  tenderness  of  compassion." 

At  the  close  of  this  paragraph  the  stillness  was 
so  marked  that  the  reader  proceeded  in  tones  scarcely 
audible. 

"  Does  the  passing  of  an  earthly  life,  such  as  yours, 
serve  but  to  prove  the  eternal  fitness  of  things ;  that 
in  the  uninterpreted  purpose  of  creation  you  were 
taken  from  the  cycle  of  eternity  and  given  an 
ephemeral  existence,  that  you  may  bloom  into  the  full 
flower  of  womanhood,  only  to  breathe  out  your  life 
and  leave  us  suffused  with  the  memories  of  your  hal- 
lowed presence  ?  " 

The  auditors,  in  their  eagerness  to  catch  every 
word,  were  so  rigidly  fixed  in  their  stare  at  the 
reader,  that  to  look  into  the  face  of  another  was 
their  furthermost  thought.  Had  this  not  been,  they 
could  not  have  failed  to  notice  the  milk-washed  face 


THE    POTTER'S     FIELD  173 

of  one  in  their  midst.  They  would  have  noticed  her 
fingers  clutching  the  arms  of  her  chair  in  a  desperate 
attempt  to  conceal  a  startling  sense  that  seemed  to 
possess  her. 

"  Nature  reveals  to  us,  sooner  or  later,  the  pur- 
pose of  her  act.  We  may  impugn  her  for  the  cruel 
and  drastic  methods  sometimes  used,  but  no  act  ever 
fails  to  broaden  those  most  stunned  by  her  blows. 
She  gives  us  love  and  death,  each  equidistant  from 
the  horizon  of  our  conception.  Love  without  death 
would  satiate  us ;  death  without  love  would  satiate 
nature. 

"  He  who  knows  no  sorrow  is  but  a  dweller  on  the 
world's  common  level,  and,  like  the  shadow  of  an 
idle  moment,  his  day  closes  with  the  setting  of  the 
sun. 

"  When  the  indiscernible  hand  of  Nature  tears 
asunder  the  intertwined  bonds  of  love  and  life,  and 
leaves  us  with  outstretched  arms  and  yearning 
countenance,  that  same  moment  we  are  transplanted 
into  the  mighty  vastness  of  her  untrammeled  expanse. 

"  When  life  and  the  secret  of  its  earthly  passing 
has  been  revealed  to  one  near  to  us,  who  stands  just 
one  irretraceable  step  away,  we  can  but  feel,  with  a 
juncture  so  nearly  formed,  there  will  be  imparted 
some  of  the  mysteries  which  Nature  reveals  only  to 
those  who  have  relinquished  their  hold  on  the  trivial 
life  we  know. 

"  The  poorest  and  most  starved  of  souls,  in  the 
narrowest  and  most  cramped  of  human  bodies, 


174  TAMAM 

never  fails  to  expand  when  nature  has  laden  it  with 
sorrow." 

After  the  reading  of  this  passage  a  sigh  of  relief 
escaped  the  lips  of  all — save  one.  In  her  bosom  the 
turbulence  increased,  and,  in  a  more  determined  effort 
for  self-mastery,  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  avoid  meet- 
ing the  glance  of  others ;  for  all  knew  there  would  fol- 
low a  general  search  of  faces  for  some  expression 
regarding  the  mystery  of  the  unidentified.  Much 
to  her  relief,  the  reader  continued: 

"  For  me,  the  perplexities  of  life  have  resolved 
themselves  into  a  single  disappointment.  The  life 
given  I  shall  hold  as  a  sacred  gratuity  and  live  it 
with  open  frankness,  though  shadowed  as  I  am  with 
the  knowledge  that  my  death  will  not  be  the  peaceful 
passing  of  a  spirit  bathed  in  the  incense  of  love  from 
those  who  have  been  nourished  by  the  fruits  of  my 
life." 

The  dominant  stillness  was  broken  by  the  plain- 
tive tremolo  of  a  thin,  high-pitched  note.  In  repeti- 
tion, as  it  became  weaker  and  thinner,  all  present 
knew  some  one  had  fainted.  Skilled  hands,  long  in- 
ured to  such  purpose,  but  never  before  ministering 
with  more  expedition  and  sympathetic  dexterity, 
tenderly  lifted  the  posthumous  daughter. 


Reflections  in  the  mirror  of  self-consciousness  pro- 


THE    POTTER'S     FIELD  175 

duce  impressions  which  go  to  form  the  lines  of  facial 
expression.  It  is  through  these  lines  the  secret  of 
one's  heart  can  often  be  read. 

When  the  posthumous  daughter  recovered  she 
mustered  every  resource  to  prevent  the  detection  of 
her  secret.  To  this  end  she  attempted  to  laugh  at 
her  own  weakness,  working  herself  to  a  state  border- 
ing on  the  hysterical,  which  resulted  in  her  relief 
from  duty  the  morning  following.  During  this 
leisure  she  found  occasion  to  enter  some  notes  in  the 
record,  at  which  time  she  studied  the  data  relating 
to  the  recent  "  unidentified."  With  his  serial  num- 
ber was  recorded  his  height,  estimated  weight,  etc., 
and  in  the  space  for  "  remarks  "  were  noted  "  alco- 
holism," "  run  down  in  street,"  "  fatally  injured." 

If  there  was  a  single  thought  in  which  she  could 
seek  relief,  it  was  that  she  had  been  spared  seeing 
him,  the  incident  occurring  while  she  was  off  duty. 
The  remarkable  coincident  seemed  to  fascinate  her, 
for,  with  lips  closed,  she  knew  there  would  be  re- 
vealed no  evidence  that  would  in  any  way  lead  to  the 
strangeness  of  his  passing.  Her  silence  meant  his 
oblivion,  while  the  world  moved  on  without  knowl- 
edge of  his  inglorious  end. 

Could  she  let  his  identity  remain  sealed,  knowing 
full  well  even  this  period-like  blot  at  the  close  of  his 
life  would,  after  a  twelve  month,  be  erased  and  the 
residue  of  his  once  splendid  body  be  raked  into  a 
corner  of  his  grave  to  make  room  for  a  bed-fellow? 
Silence  seemed  easier,  but  what  if  she  relented  when 
it  had  become  too  late!  Should  she  keep  the  secret 


176  TAMAM 

the  incident  would  long  continue  a  matter  of  interest, 
and  the  very  keeping  of  it  demanded  she  take  part  in 
such  interest.  As  to  her  fainting,  strange  to  say, 
that  had  not  aroused  suspicion.  Could  she  be  a 
hypocrite  and  join  in  picturing  the  romance  of  his 
life?  She  felt  tempted  to  join  in  the  search  for  the 
identity  of  her  whose  death  had  inspired  in  him  the 
appeal  to  her  departed  soul,  but  the  thought  of  this 
filled  her  with  chagrin.  At  last  she  had  learned  the 
reason  for  his  silence.  Through  all  these  years  he 
had  given  his  heart  to  another  in  life,  and  after  her 
death  had  given  his  soul,  while  his  lonely  body  wan- 
dered aimlessly  among  the  pitfalls  of  the  world, 
finally  to  stumble  at  her  threshold. 

The  secret  involved  no  alternative ;  should  she  keep 
it,  she  must  leave  the  hospital.  Should  she  divulge 
the  mystery,  to  what  would  it  lead?  Not  only  the 
story  of  his  life,  but  hers,  and  it  would  appear  that 
she  had  given  it  through  j  ealousy .  What  an  accusa- 
tion! Could  she  be  jealous  of  an  immortal  soul  be- 
cause it  had  not  ceased  to  serve  as  the  object  of  his 
worship,  him  whose  life  had  closed  so  ignominiously  ? 
Yes !  She  would  not  trust  herself. 

With  the  secret  known,  she  certainly  could  not  re- 
main at  the  hospital.  There  was,  then,  but  one  con- 
clusion :  under  no  conditions  could  she  remain.  Since 
she  must  go,  would  she  leave  his  identity  or  take  it 
with  her?  To  leave  it  meant  the  exhuming  of  his 
remains  from  the  potter's  field;  also  the  exhuming 
of  her  buried  heart.  To  take  it  with  her  meant  his 
eternal  abandonment  to  an  untimely  fate. 


THE    POTTER'S     FIELD  177 

Leaving  the  hospital,  as  she  must,  it  was  equally 
evident  she  should  do  so  at  once,  and  with  sufficient 
excuse.  This  she  could  find  in  her  temporary  ill- 
ness. Her  quandary  as  to  him  was  weighing  heavily, 
and  served  to  increase  the  effects  of  her  nervous 
shock. 

When  she  retired,  at  the  close  of  a  weary  day, 
it  was  for  thought,  not  sleep.  Next  morning  found 
her  with  throbbing  temples  and  blanched  face,  but 
strong  of  heart ;  she  had  determined  upon  pro- 
cedure. 

After  an  untasted  breakfast  she  went  into  the 
streets,  and  by  the  shortest  route  made  her  way  to 
the  shop  of  a  tombstone-maker.  Approaching  the 
door,  her  courage  weakened,  and  she  hesitated.  The 
shopman  saw  this  and  hastened  to  open  the  door; 
and  assuming  his  professional  countenance  of  mourn- 
ful dejection,  and  most  deferential  manner,  he  bowed 
her  in.  He  had  often  seen  heavily  burdened  hearts 
falter  at  his  door,  and  knew  it  to  be  the  better  part 
of  "  business  "  to  extend  a  helping  hand. 

Trembling,  and  speechless  with  embarrassment,  she 
entered.  The  shopman  was  accustomed  to  this  in 
his  patrons,  and  knew  he  must  question  her,  and 
with  the  least  amount  of  information  make  the  great- 
est number  of  suggestions. 

"  These  are  our  latest  styles  in  memorial  stones," 
he  began.  The  professional  man  never  calls  them 
tombstones. 

"  Is  it  for  a  child  or  an  adult?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  ranging  from  a  high  and  plaintively  pitched 


178  TAMAM 

"  child "  to  a  low  and  sympathetically  sonorous 
"  adult." 

Scarcely  above  a  whisper,  she  replied  in  one  word, 
"  Adult." 

"  These,  in  marble,  are  very  beautiful  and  the  let- 
tering shows  up  well.  Some  are  complete,  only 
awaiting  the  name  and  dates.  This  design  is  appro- 
priate for  a  lady,  while  that,  with  the  wreath,  is  more 
for  a  man.  The  'marble  looks  better  when  new,  but 
the  granite  is  more  durable.  Is  it  for  a  lady  or 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Man,"  she  replied  without  looking  up. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  shopman,  "  granite  would 
be  appropriate.  We  like  to  use  granite  for  a  man; 
it  seems  to  represent  more  strength,  resembling  the 
foundation,  so  to  speak — stability  and  force  of  char- 
acter." 

She  did  not  move  her  eyes,  which  were  fixed  in 
stare  at  a  slab  of  marble.  Noticing  this,  he  con- 
tinued with  no  apparent  interruption: 

"  But  marble  is  very  nice,  and  especially  appro- 
priate if  the  other  stones  nearby  are  of  that  mate- 
rial. We  can  generally  aid  in  selection  if  we  know 
the  nature  of  the  surroundings.  If  there  are  slopes 
and  much  shrubbery,  we  endeavor  to  carry  out  the 
same  scheme  and  suggest  rustic  effects.  If  to  be 
used  near  the  bottom  of  a  slope,  high  and  slender 
effects  look  well,  while  on  a  knoll  we  give  more 
breadth  and  less  height.  On  level  ground,  without 
much  shrubbery,  smooth  stones  of  medium  height  are 


THE  POTTER'S  FIELD  179 

nice.  We  would  be  glad  to  visit  the  location  and  ad- 
vise with  you." 

Totally  oblivious,  as  she  was,  to  his  every  remark, 
the  shopman's  suggestion  produced  no  change  in  her 
expression,  as  it  surely  would  had  she  grasped  its 
meaning.  He  saw  her  unconsciously  indicate  a 
smooth,  unadorned  marble  of  medium  height. 

"  That  one  is  very  nice,"  he  said.  "  The  price 
marked  is  for  the  stone,  and  the  lettering  costs  ac- 
cording to  the  amount  you  wish  done.  Nice  letters 
on  that  stone  would  make  it  very  handsome,  and  there 
is  plenty  of  room  for  a  quotation.  We  have  a  list  of 
standard  quotations  with  those  checked  that  have 
been  used  near  here.  They  are  arranged  for  all  rela- 
tives, as  you  see  here,  '  Father,'  '  Son,'  '  Husband,' 
'  Brother,'  etc." 

That  "  etc.,"  how  important  it  sounded !  She  re- 
called, as  a  child,  listening  to  an  auctioneer  who  was 
quoting  a  large  sum  of  money ;  and,  in  doing  so,  he 
ran  through  millions,  thousands,  and  hundreds  of 
dollars  in  a  nasal  monotone  to  dwell  in  emphasis  on 
the  number  of  cents.  She  had  always  remembered 
the  number  of  cents.  And  now  the  shopman's  "  etc." 
was  clearly  impressed  on  her  mind. 

"  This  is  our  charge  per  letter,"  he  said,  indicat- 
ing, "  and  the  number  of  letters  times  this  is  added 
to  the  cost  of  the  stone,  which  also  includes  putting 
it  in  place.  Just  above  the  center  we  could  cut  the 
word  showing  what  relationship," — she  bit  her  lips, 
— "  as  '  husband,'  or  *  father,'  or  whatever  the  case 


180  TAMAM 

calls  for.  Below  is  the  place  for  the  name  and  dates. 
If  you  like  that  suggestion,  what  would  go  here — I 
mean  how  many  letters?  "  he  hastened  to  add. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied  with  a  trem- 
ble in  her  voice,  "  Seven." 

"  Yes !  "  replied  the  shopman  after  he  had  men- 
tally counted  the  letters  in  "  husband,"  with  an  air 
indicating  he  understood  all.  "  I  will  make  them 
with  an  extra  half  inch  in  size  for  the  regular  price," 
using  a  tone  of  voice  to  show  that  his  feelings  were 
so  affected  he  would  be  impelled  to  give  an  additional 
half  inch  of  letter. 

"  You  fill  out  these  blanks  for  the  name  and 
dates,  and  the  instructions  where  the  stone  is  to  be 
placed.  We  will  attend  to  the  rest."  Having  made 
this  suggestion,  he  walked  to  the  further  end  of  the 
shop,  apparently  to  busy  himself. 

Left  alone,  she  did  not  know  whether  to  fly  from 
the  shop  or  force  herself  to  act.  She  glanced  nerv- 
ously toward  the  shopman,  who  pretended  to  be 
abstracted  in  the  study  of  a  design  before  him. 

As  rapidly  as  she  could,  with  fingers  trembling, 
and  numbed,  she  placed  a  sealed  envelope  on  the  table, 
and  fingered  for  the  money,  which  in  amount  ap- 
proximated two  months'  earnings  of  her  busy  life  in 
the  hospital. 

The  shopman,  through  occasional  glances,  saw 
her  movements,  and  knowing  this  meant  it  was  time 
for  him,  started  toward  her.  She  quickly  placed 
the  money  near  the  envelope  and  staggered  out  into 
the  street. 


THE    POTTER'S    FIELD  181 

The  maker  of  "  Memorial  Stones,"  who  believed 
himself  familiar  with  every  form  of  human  emotion, 
found  it  necessary  to  increase  his  list  by  one  after 
the  posthumous  daughter  had  left  his  shop.  Upon 
reading  the  instructions  contained  in  the  envelope 
he  hurried  to  the  door  that  he  might  observe  the 
direction  she  had  taken.  Curiosity  almost  forced 
him  to  leave  the  shop,  and,  in  the  capacity  of  a 
sleuth,  learn  something  of  her.  But  she  had  dis- 
appeared too  quickly,  and  feeling  the  shame  of  his 
temptation,  he  resolved  to  carry  out  instructions 
and  say  nothing.  That  seemed  a  better  "  business  " 
policy,  to  say  the  least. 

When  the  posthumous  daughter  returned  to  the 
hospital,  the  nurses  in  charge  noted  she  had  over- 
taxed herself  in  her  morning's  walk.  They  saw 
much  evidence  of  extreme  fatigue,  and  when  the 
languor  continued  there  were  whispers  as  to  the  ad- 
visability of  her  leaving  the  hospital  for  a  rest. 

The  next  day  finds  her  companions  making  their 
way  to  her  room  in  soft  treads,  entering  without 
waiting  for  a  reply  to  their  knock,  pressing  her 
hand  in  silence,  hastening  out  that,  unobserved,  they 
may  brush  away  an  insistent  tear.  It  is  a  sick- 
room reception.  The  posthumous  daughter  is  leav- 
ing, in  the  wane  of  her  strength.  She  must  hasten 
before  it  is  too  late. 

When  the  old  grave-digger  at  the  potter's  field 
was  called  upon  to  locate  a  certain  serial  number 
in  one  of  his  long  ridges,  and  saw  a  real  stone  slab, 


182 


TAMAM 


nicely  carved,  he  was  mystified.  Here  was  an  un- 
dreamed-of acquisition.  The  stone  cutter  helped 
count  back  from  the  end  of  a  ridge  to  find  the  grave 
corresponding  to  the  serial  number  he  had  brought, 
and  here  they  placed  the  stone  in  position. 

The  stone  looked  so  grand  that  the  grave  digger 
smoothed  over  the  mound,  and  kept  things  generally 
straightened  up  about  it.  Many  hours  has  he 
passed  transfixed  in  admiring  gaze  at  the  queer 
epitaph  consisting  of  a  single  word  encircled  by  a 
beautifully  chiseled  wreath. 


IV 

THE    SEA 

"  So  she,  deep-drenched  in  a  sea  of  care, 
Holds  disputation  with  each  thing  she  views." 

ONE  thousand  ocean-going  ships ! 

Let  such  a  fleet  pass  in  review,  the  vessels  four 
hundred  yards  apart,  even  which  distance  would 
render  maneuvering  hazardous,  and  the  line  would 
be  one  hundred  miles  in  length.  Should  this  line 
of  ships  round  a  point  in  a  smooth  sea,  it  would,  at 
the  start,  incite  a  gentle  rolling  of  the  water,  to  be 
increased  by  each  ship  in  turn,  such  that  the  last 
ship  would  be  in  a  sea  incredibly  furious. 

If  lashed  beam  to  beam,  and  bow  to  stern,  such 
a  fleet  would  make  a  raft  one  mile  square.  To  man 
the  fleet,  every  male  adult  in  one  of  our  largest  cities 
would  be  required.  Should  the  vessels  be  for  car- 
riers of  merchandise,  five  hundred  million  tons  would 
be  a  safe  load.  Should  they  be  for  the  transpor- 
tation of  passengers,  one  million  souls  could  be  taken 
aboard.  Yet,  every  year  a  fleet  of  this  size  goes 
to  the  bottom  of  the  sea ! 

When  this  fleet  shakes  its  head  of  entangled  rig- 
ging, dips  its  prow  and  starts  for  its  eternal  anchor- 
age on  the  ocean's  bottom,  it  requires  ten  thousand 

183  ' 


184  TAMAM 

souls  to  accompany  it  and  stand  guard.  There 
in  total  darkness  this  vestige  of  a  crew  awaits  the 
command  to  weigh  anchor,  for  no  rays  of  light  pene- 
trate the  ocean  depths.  In  the  icy  chill  of  the 
saline  water  their  breaths  are  cold  as  the  winter's 
blast,  for  there  is  the  absence  of  heat.  The  sen- 
tinels have  no  fear  of  invasion,  for  the  sea,  even  with 
its  myriad  of  life  forms,  grotesque,  fantastical, 
mammoth,  diminutive,  contains  not  one  creature 
which  can  exist  in  the  tremendous  pressure,  gloom, 
desolation  and  abandon  in  the  untold  fathoms  of 
the  great  depths  in  the  ocean. 

In  time  the  millions  of  tons  of  iron  that  go  to 
make  this  fleet  become  but  a  rust  stain  on  the  bed 
of  sand.  In  more  time  the  rust  stain  has  washed 
out,  and  the  fleet  has  passed  into  that  conglomerate 
and  molecular  mystery  we  call  "  The  Sea." 

Who  -can  comprehend  the  sea — its  vastness,  its 
strangeness,  the  weird  shadows  that  lie  in  its  depths ; 
the  endless  series  of  peripheral  waves  that  lave  the 
shore  in  affectionate  gentleness,  though  only  asking 
time's  aid  to  cut  away  adamant ;  its  coalition  with 
the  moon  to  mystify  us  in  that  awe-producing  in- 
trigue, the  ebb  and  flow  of  its  diurnal  tide?  Who 
knows  the  scheme  of  those  entangling  currents, 
twisting,  encircling,  swirling,  selfishly  indifferent, 
inconstant,  inconsistent?  Who  knows  the  secret  of 
its  allurements ;  the  abode  of  the  Lorelei  who  breathes 
out  those  wonderful  winds  of  exhilarating  freshness, 
while  she  smiles  in  the  glistening  crest  of  each  sun- 
kissed  wave,  and  sings  that  wonderful  Song  of  the 


THE    SEA  185 

Sea,  infatuous  in  the  restfulness  of  its  peaceful  calm, 
invidious  in  the  debauchery  of  its  intoxicated  rage, 
ever  fascinating,  enthralling,  irresistible;  that 
Lorelei  who  entices  men  through  the  seductive  rise 
and  fall  of  her  bosom,  only  to  embalm  them  in  the 
chilling  briny  ink  of  her  depths — who  can  compre- 
hend the  incomprehensible? 

The  sea  gives  life,  which  life,  in  turn,  imparts 
itself  to  the  sea,  lending  to  form  a  creature  huge 
beyond  conception ;  one  minute  docile,  gentle,  the 
next,  lashing  in  the  fury  of  madness,  then  swallowing 
itself  in  the  petulance  of  calm,  only  to  belch  forth 
in  the  nausea  of  its  autophagous  nature.  So  it  is, 
the  sea  is  life,  imparts  life,  imbibes  life,  imbues  life. 

Long,  long  ago,  men  built  a  ship,  built  it  away 
from  the  water,  up  on  the  ways,  just  as  we  have 
continued  to  do.  The  ship  would  not  move  when 
they  wanted  it  to  start  for  the  water.  It  had  no 
life,  no  spirit.  They  must  give  it  life,  give  it  spirit, 
invest  it  with  a  soul.  Accordingly,  they  dashed  out 
a  captive's  life  against  the  prow,  his  blood  drenched 
the  bowsprit,  and  his  lifeless  form  fell  to  be  crushed 
on  the  ways.  The  ship,  thus  personified,  glided 
down,  slashed  the  water  into  ribbons  of  foam  and 
took  up  the  ceaseless  motion  of  the  sea.  After  that 
they  built  a  figure-head  on  their  ship,  let  it  glide 
over  a  captive  placed  on  the  ways  and  christen  itself 
with  his  spurting  blood,  while  his  departing  soul  en- 
tered the  figure-head  to  remain  as  the  guardian 
spirit  of  the  ship,  and  bode,  in  the  dreams  of  the 
mariner,  fair  winds  and  safe  harbors. 


186  TAMAM 

We  have  continued  to  do  the  same.  We  give  our 
ships  figure-heads,  and  in  emulation  of  the  captive's 
blood,  drench  her  prow  with  wine,  for  the  ship  must 
have  life,  the  sea  demands  it,  and,  through  inherited 
superstition,  we  supply  it. 

The  sea  is  the  very  embodiment  of  superstition, 
and  that  world  of  sea-faring  folk  who  dwell  in  its 
restless  expanse  live  pervaded  with  a  sense  of  awe. 
To  them  the  sea  is  one  profound  mystery,  revenge- 
ful for  the  revealing  of  its  secret  treachery,  compas- 
sionate to  those  who  blindly  surrender  to  its  allure- 
ments. 

They  who  live  at  sea  are  quick  to  learn  the  de- 
jection and  smothering  gloom  which  follow  contem- 
plation as  to  the  mercilessness  with  which  the  hand 
of  fate  may  use  them.  To  look  from  an  isolated 
craft  into  that  broad  expanse  of  nothing,  the  hori- 
zon encircling  as  if  a  great  bell-jar  covering  was 
designing  to  make  them  drift  forever;  this  alone 
is  enough  to  send  shadows  into  the  strongest  hearts. 
But  the  sea-faring  people  do  not  look;  they  have 
learned  better.  Optimism  is  their  daily  strength ; 
the  pessimist  has  no  place  amongst  them.  Predes- 
tination is  their  creed,  and  armed  with  this  they 
tread  the  decks  with  reckless  care,  or  swing  in  their 
hammocks  with  the  sublime  trust  of  sleeping  in- 
fants. 

If  a  companion  is  lost,  he  is  soon  forgotten.  They 
must  forget;  the  bond  of  sympathy  among  ship- 
mates is  only  for  the  living.  At  sea  is  no  place  to 
harbor  an  inconsolable  memory. 


THE    SEA  187 

Ship  crews  are  criticised  for  the  indifference  they 
display  toward  a  dead  comrade;  and  that  they 
scarcely  wait  the  completion  of  the  crude  burial 
service  before  pushing  out  the  plank,  carrying  their 
mate  bound  to  it  with  his  winding-sheet ;  but  they  who 
criticise  do  not  know.  Sea-faring  folk  know  what 
is  to  be  seen  and  what  is  not.  Not  one  of  them  ex- 
pects to  escape  the  sea.  They  will  return,  of  course, 
from  each  voyage,  but  only  to  take  up  another, 
well  knowing  when  their  course  is  run  they  will  take 
their  place  with  the  silent  watch  on  the  mighty  fleet 
down  in  the  sea. 

Since  the  first  mariner  left  land  astern,  the  sea 
has  been  reckoned  with  as  the  graveyard  first  in 
mystery.  Since  the  first  outbound  ship  failed  to 
return,  the  ocean  pathways  have  been  crossed  and 
recrossed  by  the  most  ghostly  spectres  to  be  wit- 
nessed, the  phantom  ships,  ships  caught  under  that 
bell-jar-like  cover  of  the  horizon,  and  destined  to  sail 
forever  in  that  lonely  expanse  upon  which  the  sea- 
faring folk  dare  not  look.  No  graveyard  ever  har- 
bored a  ghost  so  mysterious  as  are  these  ghosts  of 
the  ocean,  the  phantom  ships. 

By  a  peculiar  deflection  of  the  rays  of  light 
when  traversing  a  series  of  atmospheric  layers 
varied  in  density,  the  phenomenon  of  mirage  is  ex- 
plained, in  which  ships  are  actually  seen,  though  far 
below  the  line  of  vision  tangent  to  the  earth's  cur- 
vature. They  appear,  disappear,  and  reappear 
with  the  disturbances  of  the  atmospheric  layers. 
Can  it  be  wondered  that  a  theme  so  realistic,  a  set- 


188  TAMAM 

ting  so  appropriate  as  is  that  of  the  sea,  a  people 
so  bred  and  born  in  superstition  as  are  they  who 
pass  their  lives  by  it,  combine  to  form  a  mystery  so 
overpowering,  so  verbally  indescribable  as  is  that  of 
the  phantom  fleet  on  its  endless  cruise? 

The  caprices  of  the  sea,  witnessed  by  those  who  re- 
turned to  tell  of  them,  are  stranger  than  the  strang- 
est fiction  ever  invented.  It  has  been  seen  to  rise  in 
twisting  columns,  reaching  to  the  low-lying  clouds, 
forming  a  veritable  temple  of  fury.  It  has  been 
seen  to  take  the  concave  form  of  a  dish  of  such  depth 
and  proportions  that  vessels  plunged  with  frightful 
speed  into  the  depression,  as  if  the  earth  had  opened 
to  swallow  a  hundred  cubic  miles  of  water  at  one 
gulp.  But  how  trivial  this  must  be  when  compared 
to  the  spectacles  witnessed  by  those  who  never  re- 
turn !  What  may  there  be  photographed  on  the 
retina  in  the  eyes  of  those  cruising  forever  on  the 
phantom  fleet!  And  even  more  trivial  is  what  they 
may  have  seen,  when  compared  with  that  which 
came  not  within  the  vision  of  human  eyes.  In  the 
countless  ages  before  the  creation  of  man,  when  life 
existed  in  forms  so  huge  it  crushed  under  its  own 
weight,  if  left  on  shore  by  the  sea,  it  is  more  than 
probable  such  spectacles  as  the  flood  of  biblical  his- 
tory may  have  occurred  many  times. 

The  least  remarkable  thing  about  this  graveyard 
is  that  all  of  its  superstitions,  phantasies,  spectres, 
myths,  mysteries  and  legends  are  truths. 

The  ingenuity  of  man's  conception  has  long  since 
lost  in  the  race  between  fact  and  fiction.  The  most 


THE    SEA  189 

fertile  imagination  is  eclipsed  by  the  preponderance 
of  possibilities.  Man  cannot  compete  with  the  sea. 
Alongside  its  unbounded  range  of  possibilities  he 
can  only  lay  the  diminutive  strength  of  his  own  crea- 
tive conception.  Against  its  merciless  treachery  he 
can  do  no  more  than  add  a  few  drops  of  the  oil  of 
fragrant  memory,  that  it  may  prove  miscible  with  the 
boundless  expanse,  and  be  carried  to  those  resting 
in  its  depths. 

One  day  each  year  there  is  launched  the  strang- 
est craft  that  ever  goes  to  sea.  It  is  a  small  man-of- 
war,  bristling  with  silent  guns,  wasting  no  powder 
in  salutes,  so  extensive  is  its  cruise,  so  great  is  its 
mission.  It  has  orders  to  go  around  the  world, 
through  all  the  seas  ever  navigated,  setting  a  course 
for  those  reefs  most  perilous,  those  currents  most 
hazardous,  making  for  the  paths  of  those  gales  most 
fearful,  ploughing  through  those  fogs  most  dense, 
avoiding  only  smooth  seas  and  fair  winds.  It  must 
not  put  in  shore  until  the  cruise  is  finished,  and  the 
cruise  is  not  finished  until  the  ship  has  touched  at 
every  rocky  ledge  where  the  waves  dash  themselves 
into  foam,  until  it  has  sounded  every  hidden  sand 
bed  within  reach  of  a  ship's  keel,  until  it  has  deter- 
mined the  bearings  of  every  ship  that  put  to  sea  and 
has  been  seen  no  more. 

The  mission  is  to  strew  flowers  on  every  spot  where 
human  life  has  found  a  grave  in  the  turbulent  bosom 
of  the  ocean.  The  craft  follows  no  nautical  chart, 
but  like  every  man-of-war,  lays  a  course  in  direct 
lines  from  point  to  point.  It  is  piloted  by  the  only 


190  TAMAM 

hand  that  knows  the  course,  the  pilot  of  our  destiny, 
the  Hand  of  God. 

When  the  craft  puts  to  sea,  so  great  is  its  cargo 
of  flowers  they  cover  its  decks,  hang  over  the  bow- 
sprit, twist  among  the  rigging,  twine  around  the 
masts  and  float  to  the  breeze  in  long  streamers.  The 
captain  is  a  lily-of-the-valley  of  rest,  commissioned 
by  those  thousands  who  strain  their  eyes  looking 
far  away  into  the  void  of  their  own  lives,  ever  on 
their  wearisome  vigil,  waiting,  waiting  for  the  re- 
turn of  those  who  went  to  sea  and  are  now  long 
overdue. 

These  crafts  are  launched  each  year  on  the  same 
date,  the  thirtieth  day  of  May.  In  building,  they 
follow  the  same  superstitions ;  they  have  the  figure- 
head, only  it  is  made  after  the  form  of  a  dove. 
They  christen  the  ship,  just  as  of  old,  only  instead 
of  the  captive's  blood  they  drench  her  prow  with 
tears.  They  call  her  "  A  floral  tribute  to  those  lost 
at  sea,"  and  in  the  name  of  the  Creator  of  the  land 
and  the  waters,  cast  her  off.  Only  in  this  way  can 
we  scatter  flowers  through  the  ocean  graveyard. 

There  is  yet  another  craft  we  should  build, 
fashion  differently,  more  after  the  order  of  the  life- 
boat, non-capsizable,  buoyant  and  self-bailing;  with 
decks  always  cleared  for  action,  and  hampered  with 
no  sentimental  cargo,  no  tinsel  streamers,  no  figure- 
head, but  easily  launched  and  without  ceremony. 
It  is  for  the  rescue  of  those  adrift  in  the  sea  of 
dilemma. 


THE    SEA  191 

How  many  lives  are  storm-tossed  on  this  sea,  sta- 
tistics do  not  tell.  How  many  weigh  anchor,  spread 
their  full  canvas  of  ambition,  mount  the  bridge  in 
command  of  their  own  ship  of  destiny  and  stand  out 
for  the  open  sea  of  life,  only  to  lose  their  course  in 
battling  with  the  waves  of  life's  quandaries?  How 
many  who  know  not  the  confusing  channels  of  life's 
cross-purposes,  who  become  doubtful  of  the  lights 
in  the  shore  beacons,  who  lose  confidence  in  the 
reckoning  of  their  own  bearings?  How  many  who 
pass  through  life,  always  at  sea,  anchoring  in  shift- 
ing bottoms,  grappling  misapprehensions,  following 
a  compass  unconscious  of  the  hidden  lodestone  de- 
flecting the  needle  from  its  true  position? 


The  winds  that  come  over  the  sea  are  wonderfully 
narcotic.  Saturated  as  they  are  with  their  own 
soporific  balm  to  the  point  of  drowsiness,  is  it 
strange  that  they  who  are  wearied  in  mind  and  body 
should  seek  the  healing  power  of  the  sea?  That 
is  why  the  posthumous  daughter  went  to  sit  in  the 
sands  where  the  ocean  breezes  could  wash  away  at 
the  perplexities  in  her  mind;  where  she  could  busy 
herself  in  the  idleness  of  day  dreaming,  listening  to 
the  whisper  of  the  waves,  whispers  tempting  her  to 
unburden  heart  secrets  to  them,  the  truest  of  all 
confidants ;  where  she  could  write  in  the  sands,  write 
words  never  to  be  seen  by  other  eyes,  then  watch  the 
friendly  waves  come  in  and  leave  the  sheet  clean, 


192  TAMAM 

so  clean,  no  misgivings  as  to  the  fate  of  her 
thoughts ;  wondering  if  a  wave  would  ever  wash 
from  her  heart  the  disappointments  written  there. 

Such  a  place  as  the  sea  is  for  musing !  She  could 
look  far  out  to  her  childhood  days,  days  now  seem- 
ing to  have  been  lived  in  another  world:  how  playful 
the  waves  were,  dashing  each  other  with  silver  spray, 
curling,  twisting  and  chasing!  She  saw  her  en- 
trance into  womanhood:  how  buoyant  the  sea  be- 
came, rolling  up  in  long,  graceful  waves  with  a 
sweep  of  irresistible  force,  everything  yielding  be- 
fore it!  Again,  she  saw  her  life  of  unabated  activ- 
ity, forced  to  conceal  the  reading  of  her  heart's  dis- 
appointments. Here  the  sea  rose  and  hung  in  sul- 
len mists,  filling  everything  with  gloom. 

So  it  was  she  watched  the  tides  come  and  go,  each 
tide  bringing  a  message  from  out  of  the  vast  empti- 
ness, and  taking  back  a  response  to  her  sympathetic 
confidant.  What  did  she  tell  to  the  sea,  and  what 
did  it  whisper  to  her?  It  could  not  have  been  of 
her  later  life,  for  often  a  smile  might  have  been  seen 
stealing  over  her  face.  Did  each  tide  flood  her  with 
the  memories  of  those  days  when  she  was  the  un- 
opened bud  of  a  beautifully  tinted  rose,  and  the 
fairyland  dreams  of  sleep  were  only  equalled  by  the 
realities  of  her  awakening?  And  did  each  tide,  in 
its  ebb,  carry  out  some  of  the  bitter  secrets  in  her 
heart,  to  be  buried  in  the  ocean  depths,  safe  ever 
more  from  mortal  ears?  It  must  have  done  so,  for 
the  flower  in  her  cheek  seemed  to  freshen,  and  the 
soothing  breezes  that  kissed  her  brow  eased  the  ten- 


THE    SEA  193 

sion  and  glistening  stare  that  had  been  fast  fixing 
in  her  eyes. 

Who  knows  the  daydreams  wafted  to  her  in  the 
drowsiness  of  the  ocean  air?  One  may  have  been  of 
her  childhood's  environment;  how,  when  the  smallest 
of  the  little  ones,  she  had  grown  into  her  first  knowl- 
edge of  love  for  a  little  sweetheart  who  had  been 
chosen  for  her,  in  accordance  with  a  custom  of 
mothers  at  that  time  of  laying  the  paths  of  children 
to  verge  toward  a  common  ground  of  mutual  affec- 
tion ;  how  her  path  had  led  into  that  of  a  bright- 
faced  little  lad,  born  under  a  sky  of  promise,  and  in 
the  beautiful  simplicity  of  childhood's  infatuation 
they  had  trod  the  common  path,  arm  in  arm,  be- 
stowing upon  each  other  the  affection  of  infantile 
innocence;  how  into  romping  childhood  they  had 
grown  together,  and  so  generally  had  their  pre- 
mature mating  been  recognized,  deference  was  shown 
them,  even  by  the  children,  in  their  games :  as  in 
"  drop  the  handkerchief,"  all  knew  when  it  was  his 
turn  it  would  certainly  be  dropped  at  her  back  and, 
in  the  chase  to  follow,  just  how  much  he  would  run, 
dodge  and  squirm,  then  stumble  and  fall  that  she 
might  tag  him ;  or  if  playing  "  bow  to  the  wittiest, 
kneel  to  the  prettiest,  and  kiss  the  one  you  love 
best,"  how,  when  it  was  her  turn  to  come  into  the 
room  of  expectant  children,  she  would  look  confused, 
choose  with  much  care  the  two  first,  then,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  kiss  him;  how  on  through  child- 
hood they  had  gone  together,  and  in  the  develop- 
ment of  youth,  unconsciously,  each  had  grown  into 


194  TAMAM 

the  life  of  the  other.  And  what  else  was  to  be  ex- 
pected than  the  co-ordination  of  affinities? 

Perchance  her  dream  was  of  the  days  when,  in  the 
strength  of  manhood,  he  had  outgrown  the  child- 
hood training  and  the  results  of  their  youth's  pro- 
pinquity, but  in  full  recognition  of  the  sense  of 
power  in  the  lordship  of  his  own  rights,  had  again 
found  himself  at  her  feet,  on  the  evening  she  had 
left  him,  a  myrtle- crowned  conqueror  so  uncere- 
moniously dethroned. 

These  are  the  kinds  of  dreams  the  ocean  winds 
bring  in,  silver-lined,  down-nested,  and  mollifying. 

Those  dreams  that  did  not  come  from  over  the  sea 
were  of  her  secret  determinations,  his  indomitable 
persistency,  her  disappointment  and  chagrin,  his 
pitiful  end,  her  secret,  and  the  withering  nightmare 
of  his  love  for  another.  But  the  dreams  from  over 
the  sea  prevailed,  and  each  day  she  was  growing 
stronger,  stronger  in  heart,  the  strength  she 
needed. 

And  there  she  sat,  day  after  day,  listening,  watch- 
ing, waiting.  For  what?  She  did  not  know;  who 
does,  when  they  listen,  watch  and  wait?  All  are 
sometimes  listening,  listening  to  the  stillness  of  their 
own  meditation;  some  are  all  times  watching,  watch- 
ing against  intrusion  on  the  sacredness  of  their  in- 
dividuality ;  but  all  are  always  waiting,  waiting  for 
the  wonderful  fleet  of  ships  just  over  the  horizon; 
that  fleet,  countless  in  number,  heavily  laden  and 
with  the  strangest  of  cargoes,  the  fruits  of  imagi- 
nary accomplishments. 


THE    SEA  195 

Some  ships  there  are  among  this  fleet  so  water- 
logged with  the  greed  of  gain  they  are  floundering 
rather  than  jettison  the  cargo;  others  tossing  with- 
out ballast  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  loaded  from 
keel  to  yard-arms  with  the  sponge-like  cargo  of  vain 
ambitions ;  others  speeding  with  decks  awash,  bring- 
ing precious  perfume  and  ointments,  the  perfume  of 
brotherly  love  for  those  isolated  in  their  grandeur  of 
personal  vanity,  the  ointment  of  consolation  for 
those  wounded  in  their  spirit  of  pride;  for  such  is 
the  cargo  of  the  fleet  of  hope,  hailing  from  the  port 
of  good  fortune,  each  ship  bound  for  some  human 
heart. 

Many  of  the  ships  in  this  great  fleet  are  always 
just  below  the  horizon,  stemming  adverse  currents 
that  unexpectedly  set  in,  but  sure  to  arrive  on  the 
turn  of  the  tide ;  others,  having  lost  their  cargo,  put 
back  to  reload  rather  than  enter  port  not  loaded; 
while,  for  some,  due  allowance  is  made  for  delay  inci- 
dent to  the  caution  of  the  crew.  Some  few,  very 
few,  come  in  sight  but  "  keep  off,"  waiting  for 
"  off-shore "  winds  that  they  may  land  in  safety. 
Many  are  the  delays  and  difficulties  that  befall  the 
great  fleet ;  but  well  for  the  spirit  in  mortal  breasts, 
still  fewer,  if  any,  are  ever  hopelessly  lost. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  the  fleet  for  which  all  are 
waiting.  For  those  flushed  in  the  possession  of 
worldly  fortune,  as  well  as  they  who  spend  their  lives 
in  the  passive  languor  of  day  dreaming,  are  always 
listening,  watching,  waiting,  "  waiting  for  their 
ship  to  come  in." 


196  TAMAM 

Was  the  posthumous  daughter  waiting  for  her 
ship?  In  all  that  fleet  was  there  a  crew,  sturdy  and 
strong,  battling  with  the  storms  of  indecision,  in- 
trepidly laying  their  course  in  accordance  with  the 
needle  that  pointed  to  her  heart?  Or,  had  her  ship 
reached  port,  dismasted,  barnacled  and  listing  with 
wounds  in  the  hull,  cargo  gone  as  salvage  for  the 
saving  of  her  crew?  No;  somewhere  there  must 
have  been  sailing,  under  her  flag,  a  stately  ship, 
folded  in  clouds  of  white  canvas  stretched  to  the  tone 
of  kettle  drums  by  the  fair  winds  on  her  quarter, 
her  prow  cutting  the  water  into  fountains  that 
curled  over  her  bowsprit,  leaving  in  her  wake  long 
strings  of  pearly  beads,  while  continuous  sunshine 
formed  rainbow-like  halos  of  the  silver  spray  that 
flew  from  her.  There  must  have  been  a  princely 
captain  on  her  bridge,  a  crew  bronzed  in  the  golden 
wealth  of  the  sea,  and  a  cargo  of  fragrant  spices — 
spice  for  a  new  life,  spice  for  a  new  world,  spice  for 
a  new  suitor.  So  much  for  the  healing  breaths  that 
come  from  over  the  sea. 

And  there  she  sat,  listening,  watching,  waiting ; 
each  day  bringing  with  it  a  bit  of  freshened  life, 
just  enough  to  carry  her  through  its  course. 

It  was  a  charitable  act  of  Providence  that  divided 
time  into  daily  intervals,  else  what  would  they  do 
who  must  sit  and  wait?  The  very  counting  of  time's 
daily  pulsations  serve  to  alleviate  the  mental  con- 
gestion arising  from  forced  inactivity.  Watch  the 
sun  emerge  from  the  sea,  with  a  face  so  shining  it 
seems  every  sand  of  the  shore  must  have  been  used 


THE    SEA  197 

in  the  polishing  process  of  its  daily  ablutions ;  watch 
that  mighty  pendulum  lift  the  last  of  its  periphery 
from  its  morning  bath,  to  begin  one  more  swing  in 
the  measure  of  eternity,  and  you  can  make  one  count 
in  the  immeasurable  number  of  those  pulsations 
which  go  to  make  time,  and  each  count  brings  re- 
newed interest. 

Time  is  a  great  wheel  of  fortune  at  which  we  play 
the  game  of  chance  called  Life;  and  so  infectious 
is  the  game  that  mankind  has  become  hopelessly 
addicted  and  irretrievably  lost  in  the  delusion  of  its 
fascination.  All  are  delirious  with  excitement  in- 
cident to  the  possibility  of  defying  the  arithmetical 
laws  of  chance  and  making  a  winning  play.  On  the 
great  wheel  there  are  countless  failures  for  each  suc- 
cess, and  numberless  sorrows  for  each  joy.  As  it 
turns,  we  watch  the  prizes  pass  to  others,  and  the 
blanks  fall  to  us ;  but  no  matter,  who  stops  in  a  los- 
ing game  of  chance?  Certainly  no  one  in  the  great 
game  of  life.  The  human  heart  is,  instinctively,  too 
strong  for  that.  There  may  be  some  whose  stake  is 
small  and  played  with  trembling  hands,  and  there 
may  even  be  some  who  hold  but  the  single  number 
which  they  inherit  with  the  right  of  human  existence ; 
but  with  the  dawn  of  each  day  every  human  being 
scans  the  prize  numbers  indicated  by  the  wheel  of 
time.  Some  there  are  who  play  the  game  in  fear- 
less openness,  even  defiance,  staking  their  all  on 
the  number  offering  the  greatest  odds,  while  others 
play  in  the  meekness  of  secrecy,  carefully  search- 
ing out  the  numbers  where  the  ratio  is  lowest;  but 


198  TAMAM 

all  are  possessed  with  the  mania  for  gambling  at  the 
great  wheel  of  time. 

Some  play  their  stake  for  worldly  fortunes,  and 
when  the  blanks  fall,  beat  their  breasts  as  they  swal- 
low the  bitter  draughts  of  disappointment,  strip 
themselves  of  the  last  farthing,  after  which  they  sell 
their  souls  for  just  one  more  stake,  ever  trusting  in 
their  ability  to  eventually  recoup  their  losses 
through  a  winning  play.  Some,  with  hearts  swollen 
from  the  suffering  of  blighted  happiness,  play  the 
wheel  for  renewed  life,  ever  trusting  in  time  as  the 
great  healer  of  all  sorrow,  confident  the  future 
holds  in  store  a  prize  of  healing  ointment  for  the 
wounded  heart ;  and  as  the  seared  blanks  of  anguish 
fall,  inject  into  their  hearts  the  antitoxin  of  de- 
spair and  search  their  lives  for  just  one  more  ray 
of  hope  that  they  may  play,  again,  on  the  great 
wheel. 

Others,  impaired  in  body,  play  their  stake  for 
health;  and  as,  day  after  day,  they  draw  the  pale 
blanks  of  physical  pain,  while  the  golden  prize  of 
health  passes  to  others,  they  cease  not  in  the  gamble, 
but  prey  upon  their  weakened  bodies  and,  like 
leeches,  sap  the  final  drops  of  their  life's  blood,  if 
only  they  can  play  the  trivial  stake  at  the  great 
wheel  once  more. 

Who  are  so  distantly  isolated  in  the  strife  for 
worldly  fortune,  so  heavily  laden  with  their  bur- 
den of  sorrow,  so  emaciatingly  worn  by  the  ravages 
of  pain  that  they  have  lost  interest  in  the  rev- 
olution of  the  wheel?  What  will  the  day  bring 


forth? — that  is  the  stimulus  in  the  game  of  life. 
To  lose  means  indomitable  persistency  to  win ;  to 
win  means  a  determination  to  win  once  more. 

The  posthumous  daughter  was  playing  at  the 
great  wheel  and  watching  the  blanks  fall.  What 
was  her  stake,  and  for  what  did  she  play?  There 
was  her  birthright  inherited  from  a  sturdy  ances- 
try. Surely  the  winds  that  came  in,  laden  with 
the  life  of  the  sea,  were  not  fickle  when  they  tempted 
her  to  play  for  the  prize  of  health.  The  softening 
of  the  hectic  flush  in  her  face  was  a  small  winning; 
would  it  tempt  her  to  play  a  stake  for  happiness? 
Was  there  a  flickering  ray  of  hope  she  could  stake, 
that  the  wheel  might  some  day  dislodge  one  of  its 
hoarded  prizes  and  so  break  the  monotony  of  the 
stream  of  blanks  that  had  long  run  to  her?  To 
search  for  this  hope  was  but  to  flood  her  heart  with 
bitterness.  The  deadliest  essence  of  feminine  frail- 
ties is  the  excretion  arising  from  an  unreciprocated 
love.  If  the  golden  years  of  her  life  had  been  spent 
in  waiting  for  him,  he  whose  life  was  grafted  in  her 
heart,  and  his  return  was  but  to  lay  at  her  feet  the 
secret  of  his  wasted  life  and  lonely  death,  after 
which  the  mystery  of  his  silence  was  to  be  revealed 
through  the  faithfulness  of  his  love  for  another,  and 
nay,  more,  had  indited  to  that  soul,  in  the  epitome 
of  his  life,  the  climax  of  the  thought  she,  herself,  had 
expressed  when  she  conceded  him  to  be  the  myrtle- 
crowned  conqueror  of  her  own  heart;  if  she  even 
dared  to  play  the  wheel  for  the  peace  of  mind  so 
long  sought,  where  could  be  found  a  tiny  ray  of 


200  TAMAM 

hope  she  might  use  as  her  stake?  What  cruel  spirit 
of  the  sea  was  concealed  in  its  winds  to  tempt  her 
look  for  happiness  on  the  merciless  wheel  of  time. 

Time  must  not  trifle  with  woman.  The  climax 
in  her  life  is  when  maturity  is  on  the  meridian  and 
she  glows  with  the  effulgence  of  new-born  woman- 
hood. In  the  post-meridian  of  feminine  life  resort 
must  be  had  to  the  adroitness  of  feminine  conceit 
for  removing  the  fingerprints  which  Time  may,  in 
idle  indifference,  leave  upon  her  face.  In  the  ob- 
taining of  the  state  of  coveted  feminine  felicity, 
woman  does  not  want  the  handicap  of  time.  On  no 
brow  does  it  sit  more  heavily  than  on  hers. 

In  the  language  of  woman,  there  is  nothing  so 
cruel  in  meaning  as  the  word  "  atrophy."  This 
word  implies  the  reverse  of  growth.  The  growth 
of  anything  abounds  with  interest,  and  nowhere  can 
it  be  observed  to  better  advantage  than  in  the  human 
body.  From  birth  to  maturity  there  is  the  constant 
expansion  of  framework  to  be  later  filled  in  by  the 
formation  of  tissue,  until  the  whole  forms  a  con- 
tour symmetrical  and  smooth.  In  the  feminine  face 
this  development  continues  and  attains  its  degree 
of  rhythmical  proportions  with  the  maturing  of  the 
bloom  of  womanhood.  Through  this  period  there  is 
serenity  of  mind  in  harmony  with  the  beauty  in  the 
thought  of  growth.  But  nature  knows  no  state  of 
rest,  no  line  of  inviolable  conditions ;  with  her  all 
life  is  more  or  less  in  a  parabolic  curve.  Just  so 
soon  as  the  rounding  out  of  the  curves  in  a  beauti- 
ful face  has  been  completed,  she  gives  us  but  a 


THE    SEA  201 

momentary  glance  before  sentencing  it  to  the 
leprosy-like,  lingering  death,  as  implied  by  the  word 
"  atrophy." 

In  the  face  is  where  the  results  of  atrophication 
are  first  shown,  the  most  perceptible  demarcation  be- 
ing in  those  lines  extending  from  the  sides  of  the  nose, 
diagonally  down,  and  outward.  Sometimes  we  are 
compassionate  enough  to  call  them  lines  of  expres- 
sion, and  so  they  may  be,  expressing,  as  they  do, 
arrival  at  the  period  of  life's  serious  intent.  After 
this,  atrophication,  in  various  degrees  of  activity, 
begins  anywhere  until,  finally,  the  face,  once  so  beau- 
tifully rounded,  has  become  sunken  and  angular; 
while  the  skin,  in  conforming  to  the  new  conditions, 
may  fill  the  face  with  wrinkles,  or  become  so  drawn 
as  to  distort  the  features.  Age  is  but  the  result- 
ant product  of  time  and  the  enzym-like  action  of 
atrophia  humanus.  The  atrophia  finds  less  resist- 
ance in  the  delicately  constructed  tissues  of  woman's 
face,  and  there  its  ravages  are  most  fearful. 

It  was  when  the  posthumous  daughter  displayed 
callous  indifference  to  the  blanks  from  the  wheel  of 
time  that  atrophia  stole  into  her  face,  and  she  real- 
ized the  zenith  of  her  wondrous  beauty  had  passed. 
She  came  to  feel  differently  toward  the  sea,  to  dis- 
trust the  sleep-giving  winds,  to  harbor  a  suspicion 
of  their  treachery.  They  had  inveigled  her  to  sit 
and  wait,  when  she  should  have  been  up  and  doing, 
while  her  sun  was  on  the  meridian.  She  had  over- 
looked the  possibility  that  the  "  Sea  of  Life  "  may 
have  its  "  Davy  Jones." 


TAMAM 


THE     LEGEND    OF    "  DAVY    JONES  " 

That  every  sailor  who  disappears  beneath  the  water 
to  be  seen  no  more  has  "  gone  to  Davy  Jones' 
locker  "  is  a  euphemism  the  world  over.  This 
"  Jones  "  can  trace  his  origin  to  the  earliest  super- 
stition in  the  history  of  the  world.  While  to-day 
the  encyclopedia  of  "  Universal  Knowledge  "  gives 
his  history  in  the  single  phrase,  "  the  sailor's  bug- 
a-boo,"  it  is  nevertheless  true  his  genealogical  se- 
quence can  be  traced  to  the  days  of  Jeroboam. 

Long,  long  ago,  before  the  invention  of  time  and 
its  allied  complications,  there  were  created  three 
great  kings.  One,  Chamrosh,  was  to  be  ruler  over 
everything  that  lives  in  the  air  ;  another,  Behemoth, 
over  all  the  creatures  that  inhabit  the  land;  while 
the  third,  Leviathan,  was  king  of  the  waters.  As 
neither  Chamrosh  nor  Behomoth  is  responsible  for 
the  "  Jones  "  in  question,  no  further  mention  will  be 
made  regarding  them,  their  existence  being  cited 
merely  to  illustrate  the  extreme  exclusiveness  of 
Jones'  ancestor  in  the  selection  of  his  associates. 

Leviathan  was  the  greatest  of  the  three  kings, 
because  he  had  greater  territory  over  which  to  rule. 
The  lesser  kings  had  to  be  created  of  the  hugest 
size  conceivable,  that  they  might  be  commensurate 
with  their  duties.  This  necessitated  Leviathan's  be- 
ing so  inconceivably  large  that  it  was  deemed  wise 
not  to  give  him  a  mate,  else  the  multiplying  of  his 
species  would  overrun  and  devour  the  world.  Since 
Leviathan  was  to  have  no  lineal  descendants,  he  was 


THE    SEA  203 

clothed  with  a  kind  of  sub-creative  power,  in  which 
power  we  have  the  origin  of  Davy  Jones. 

According  to  the  midrash  of  Johannon,  Leviathan 
was  a  mile  in  length.  If  angered  through  hunger 
or  other  cause,  he  could  breathe  forth  a  heat  so 
intense  as  to  boil  the  waters  of  the  deep  and  throw 
the  sea  into  a  tempest.  From  his  eyes  there  came  a 
light  so  strong  it  can  yet  be  seen  in  the  so-called 
phosphorescence  of  the  water.  The  odor  from  him 
was  so  stifling  that  should  he  put  his  head  into  Para- 
dise it  would  destroy  every  living  creature,  and 
from  him  came  all  the  pestilence  of  the  world.  He 
lived  in  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  and  there  could  flow 
into  his  mouth  the  waters  of  the  Jordan.  Levia- 
than possessed  two  great  horns,  on  the  points  of  which 
were  balls  of  violet  and  green-colored  fire.  The  balls 
would  play  about  the  horns,  jumping  from  one  to 
the  other,  as  St.  Elmo's  lights  of  to-day  play  from 
mast  to  mast  on  ships  destined  to  be  visited  by 
calamity. 

Contemporary  with  Leviathan  was  a  fish,  Cetos 
by  name.  Now,  Cetos  lived  under  conditions  not 
conducive  to  happiness.  While  himself  a  princely 
fish,  and  a  natural  successor  ,to  the  throne  of  Levia- 
than, yet  Cetos  had  no  comfort  of  mind,  for  he  was 
the  sworn  enemy  of  Leviathan,  who  had  promised  to 
devour  him  on  sight. 

It  was  during  this  time  there  lived  a  certain  man, 
lonas  by  name.  lonas  was  a  lawful  prophet  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  Jeroboam ;  and,  owing  to  his  hatred 
for  a  certain  people  of  the  land,  refused  to  go 


204  TAMAM 

among  them  and  prophesy  their  destruction,  as  he 
had  been  ordered,  since  such  an  act  on  his  part  would 
give  them  opportunity  to  repent  from  the  wickedness 
of  their  way,  and  then  possibly  escape  punishment. 
To  avoid  punishment  for  his  own  disobedience,  lonas 
found  it  necessary  to  flee,  wherefore  he  took  passage 
on  a  ship  ready  to  sail  for  a  distant  country.  While 
on  this  voyage  a  great  tempest  arose,  so  frightening 
the  sailors  that,  in  accordance  with  a  custom  of  that 
time,  they  began  to  cast  lots  to  determine  who  should 
be  thrown  into  the  sea  that  the  fury  of  the  tempest 
might  be  satisfied.  While  so  casting  they  discov- 
ered this  same  lonas,  who  had  taken  passage  with 
them,  had  failed  to  come  up,  whereupon  they  made 
search  and  found  him  snoring  in  the  bottom  of  the 
ship.  This  so  angered  them  they  cast  him  into  the 
sea,  after  which  the  tempest  subsided  and  the  ship 
went  on  its  way. 

Now  it  was  never  intended  that  lonas  should  so 
easily  escape  the  punishment  which  was  to  be  meted 
out  to  him  for  his  disobedience,  therefore,  when  he 
was  cast  into  the  sea,  Cetos  appeared  and  swallowed 
him.  Cetos  was  sufficiently  large  in  throat  to  per- 
mit lonas  to  pass  into  him  with  ease,  and  continue  to 
live.  Inside  of  Cetos  was  suspended  a  huge  pearl 
that  not  only  lighted  up  the  fish,  so  that  lonas  could 
see,  but  the  light  shone  through  the  body  of  Cetos, 
such  that  the  sea  was  lighted.  Cetos  informed  lonas 
that  he  himself,  Cetos,  was  to  be  swallowed  by  Levia- 
than, lonas  agreed  to  save  both  of  them  from  the 
fury  of  Leviathan,  and  also  said  they  would  be  able 


THE    SEA  205 

to  slay  him.  For  this  kindness  on  the  part  of  lonas, 
Cetos  took  him  through  all  the  mysteries  of  the 
deep,  and  by  the  light  from  the  pearl,  lonas  was 
shown  the  great  abyss  that  lies  beneath  the  sea,  and 
the  stalactitic  pillars  upon  which  the  earth  rests. 
Here  the  darkness  was  so  intense  it  was  solid  like 
soot ;  and  the  great  stalactites,  which  had  been 
formed  by  the  dripping  of  the  waters  through  the 
bed  of  the  sea,  extended  to  such  depths  that  even 
Cetos  had  never  seen  the  bottom  of  them.  Here  it 
was  Leviathan  came,  when  he  felt  the  need  of  sleep ; 
and  sometimes,  when  he  snored,  the  earth  would 
tremble  and  great  clouds  of  darkness  would  break 
through  the  crust  of  the  earth  and  go  up  to  cover 
the  face  of  the  sun. 

lonas  was  also  taken  over  the  path  used  by  the 
children  of  Israel  in  their  march  through  the  Red 
Sea.  It  was  here  they  chanced  upon  Leviathan,  who 
became  furious,  and  boiled  the  water  until  Cetos 
was  exhausted  and  could  not  escape.  It  was  then 
lonas  displayed  the  seal  of  Abraham,  which  so  as- 
tonished Leviathan,  he  shot  away  a  distance  of  two 
days.  For  this  act  on  the  part  of  lonas  and  Cetos, 
Leviathan  made  use  of  the  sub-creative  power  that 
had  been  given  him,  and  caused  lonas  to  prove 
nauseous  in  the  stomach  of  Cetos,  whereupon  Cetos 
spat  lonas  to  dry  land,  a  distance  of  nine  hundred 
and  sixty-eight  parasangs.  When  lonas  was  thus 
spat  out,  his  spirit  ascended  to  be  judged,  after 
which  it  immediately  returned  to  the  mouth  of  Cetos. 
The  evil  in  lonas'  spirit  caused  the  death  of  Cetos, 


206  TAMAM 

and  Leviathan  made  the  body  shrink  into  a  homely 
shape,  leaving  the  once  symmetrically  shaped  tail 
with  the  unsightly  taper  of  a  lizard's.  The  well- 
formed  back  of  Cetos  became  filled  with  lumps,  his 
scales  were  made  to  drip  with  oily  slime,  his  mouth 
was  so  filled  with  crooked  teeth  it  could  not  be  closed, 
which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  continuously 
grinning,  while  on  his  head  was  planted  a  pair  of 
ill-shaped  horns.  From  his  nostrils  came  a  heated 
smoke  laden  with  pestilence,  so  foul  that  all  crea- 
tures of  the  sea  would  seek  to  avoid  him. 

The  spirit  of  lonas  was  made  to  dwell  in  this 
shrunken  and  distorted  body,  and  the  new  creature 
assigned  as  chief  of  all  the  evils,  pestilence  and  hor- 
rors of  the  sea.  In  time  it  became  known  as  "  Duffy 
lonas " — the  ghost  of  lonas.  The  etymological 
constrictions  of  latter-day  usage  give  us  "  Davy 
Jones." 

In  the  early  days  of  sailing  ships,  when  passages 
were  slow  and  navigators  were  not  provided  with 
maps  and  charts,  there  were  long  and  trying  days 
and  weeks  spent,  sometimes  in  storms,  sometimes  in 
calms.  During  these  occasions  sailormen  were  very 
apt  to  become  morosely  suspicious.  Unfamiliar  as 
they  were  with  currents  and  tides,  it  was  not  strange 
if,  after  long  weeks  of  calms,  they  found  themselves 
nearing  unknown  lands,  they  attributed  their  re- 
markable predicament  to  hidden  influences,  and 
thought  that  such  influences  must  have  a  cause,  else 
they  would  not  be  provoked  to  such  extremities. 
This  logically  led  to  a  search  for  the  cause,  until 


THE    SEA  207 

almost  any  conceivable  condition  on  board  ship,  or 
anything  associated  with  its  building,  naming, 
launching  and  such  things,  would  be  ascribed  as  the 
reason  for  any  undesirable  plight  in  which  they 
found  themselves. 

This  was  the  birth  of  superstition  among  sea-far- 
ing folks,  and  so  lustily  has  it  grown  that  to-day 
there  is  catalogued  in  the  "  Encyclopedia  of  Super- 
stitions "  more  than  one  thousand  well-recognized 
omens,  good  and  bad,  by  which  the  sailor  is  guided. 
So  firmly  rooted  are  these  superstitions  of  the  sea, 
that  our  modern-day  customs  regarding  ships  and 
shipping  are  to  a  large  extent  guided  by  them. 

The  penalty  of  the  sailor's  violation  of  his  numer- 
ous superstitions  is  the  presence  of  "  Davy  Jones," 
who  will  be  seen  sitting  in  the  rigging,  or  in  any  one 
of  the  many  ways  he  may  select  to  manifest  his 
presence. 

As  forerunner  of  all  the  disasters  and  horrors  of 
the  sea,  the  ocean  is  universally  known  as  his 
"  locker ;"  and  all  who  fail  to  return  from  the  sea 
are,  presumably,  in  his  safe-keeping. 


Of  the  things  ridiculously  pathetic,  painfully  ludi- 
crous and  harshly  incongruous  with  the  sensitiveness 
of  human  nature,  there  is  nothing  comparable  with 
that  of  an  elderly  woman  who  has  conceived  the  idea 
she  may  be  the  subject  of  the  amorous  thoughts  of 
a  man ;  and  yet  more  painful  than  this,  of  a  man 
very  decidedly  her  junior;  then  goes  so  far  as  to 


208  TAMAM 

delude  herself  with  the  thought  that  Time  has  not 
had  that  success  as  a  purloiner  of  feminine  charms 
so  notoriously  accredited  to  him. 

When  a  woman  is  sufficiently  well  advanced  in 
years  to  accept  the  queenly  crown  of  age,  and  real- 
ize that  the  difference  between  maidenhood  and  old 
age  is  the  difference  between  the  coupled  adjectives, 
"  tall  and  slender  "  and  "  short  and  fat "' ;  but 
rather  than  accept  the  crown  graciously,  endeavors 
to  defy  the  power  of  time  by  applying  to  her  face 
the  mechanical  elixir  of  life  and  tightening  the  lash- 
ings in  the  fish-bone  girdle  of  her  rotundity,  she  sug- 
gests an  old  piece  of  creamy  lace  that  has  been 
washed,  bleached  and  starched,  or  a  Chippendale 
table  that  has  had  its  eagle  claws  and  glass  balls 
replaced  with  ball-bearing  rollers. 

It  was  the  old  widow  who  had  tripped  in  her  path 
of  dignified  complacency,  when  one  morning  she 
looked  into  the  mirror,  toyed  with  the  little  cork- 
screw curls  that  played  on  her  temples,  gave  a  few 
vicious  pinches  at  the  crow's-feet  that  spread  from 
the  outer  corners  of  her  eyes,  and  emptied  her  lungs 
while  glancing  at  the  space  between  the  finger-ends 
as  she  spanned  her  waist  line.  She  found  herself  un- 
able to  walk  in  anything  less  than  a  quickstep  move- 
ment, which  imparted  that  swinging  motion  to  her 
skirts  indicative  of  the  vivacity  of  youth  and  the 
sauciness  of  unconquerable  independence.  How 
trivial  the  cares  of  housekeeping  suddenly  became, 
and  how  rapidly  the  duties  of  the  morning  vanished 
before  the  strength  resulting  from  the  stimulating 


THE    SEA 

thought  of  renewed  youth!  Like  the  milkmaid  of 
fable  lore,  what  visions  she  saw  of  herself,  gowned 
perhaps  in  the  crinoline  stiffness  of  fresh  linen  and 
the  renewed  importance  of  her  early  matron  days. 
She  had  a  secret  if  only  she  could  keep  it.  That 
strangely  interesting  tenant  of  hers  was  in  love,  and 
that  is  not  telling  the  half.  He  was  not  only  in  love, 
but  in  love  with  her  own  dear  self.  It  was  now  plain 
why  he  had  so  persistently  avoided  the  traps  that 
had  been  set  for  him.  That  frantic  rush  through 
the  pole  beans,  in  evading  two  jabbering  girls,  ap- 
peared to  her  in  a  new  light.  That  vacant  stare, 
and  that  occasional  listless  manner  which  always 
vanished  with  a  flush  in  his  bronzed  face  when  un- 
expectedly coming  upon  her,  and  the  remarkable 
change  to  his  cheerful  drollery  and  extraordinary 
gallantry  when  in  her  presence — all  these  things  had 
but  one  meaning.  Now,  if  she  chose,  she  could 
answer  those  gossips  as  to  why  he  remained  so 
rigidly  exclusive.  They  who  thought  him  unneigh- 
borly,  and  suggested  it  would  be  good  for  him  to 
mingle  with  people,  perhaps  younger  than  his  land- 
lady, or  spitefully  dubbed  him  an  incurably  bashful 
churl,  did  not  know.  And,  bless  her  own  soul,  she 
had  been  at  sea  as  much  as  any  of  them,  innocently 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that,  in  her,  he  found  the 
companionship  and  mental  compensation  sufficient 
for  his  needs.  All  the  unseemly  actions  charged 
by  her  neighbors  had  been  cleared  by  his  confession 
on  the  previous  evening,  made  to  her,  and  now  with 
what  pride  she  could  exonerate  him! 


210  TAMAM 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  widow  was  sitting 
in  her  doorway  watching  the  fading  of  the  day  and, 
with  it,  the  awakening  of  nocturnal  life.  That  sub- 
division of  the  animal  world  which  elects  to  remain 
dormant  through  day  and  appear  with  its  disap- 
pearance, was  breaking  its  silence.  The  katydids 
were  scratching  away  at  their  "  dids  "  and  "  didn'ts," 
the  tree  toads  were  whistling  like  an  army  of  small 
boys  who  have  just  discovered  the  art  but  are  unable 
to  get  beyond  the  stage  of  "  fits  and  starts,"  while 
the  crickets  meekly  chirped  in  whenever  the  others 
stopped  for  a  breathing  spell.  It  was  the  hum  in 
the  quiet  of  eventide,  the  change  from  the  "  day  "  to 
the  "  night-shift  "  in  the  insect  world.  She  always 
sat  in  her  doorway  at  this  time,  and  was  never 
startled  at  the  sound  of  boot-heels  on  the  pavement 
that  led  from  her  door  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  so  regular  had  the  habits  of  her  tenant  be- 
come. 

On  this  particular  evening  she  knew  he  was  com- 
ing long  before  the  accustomed  sound  on  the  pave- 
ment. Katydids  cease  in  their  scratching  when  one 
passes  under  the  tree  they  are  in.  With  this  knowl- 
edge she  could  trace  him  through  the  woods,  and  as 
the  wake-like  hush  neared  the  house  she  knew  the 
moss-rose  that  grew  near  the  end  of  the  walk  would 
soon  brush  his  boot-tops. 

She  was  aware  of  a  recent  and  decided  change  in 
manner  from  his  ordinary  light-heartedness,  and,  for 
this  reason,  refrained  from  her  usual  greeting  when 
the  swish  of  the  bush  was  heard,  but  waited  for  the 


THE    SEA 

clatter  on  the  pavement.  He  responded  in  a  voice 
so  low,  she  quickly  craned  her  neck  that  she  might 
see  if  there  were  any  possibility  of  a  mistake  in  the 
identity  of  her  visitor.  There  was  none,  but  this 
was  so  quickly  followed  by  an  unprecedented  oc- 
currence, the  widow  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the 
meaning.  For  the  first  time  in  their  acquaintance 
he  had  nothing  to  say  or,  better  expressed,  said  noth- 
ing, and  seemed  to  await  a  remark  from  her.  She 
was  so  accustomed  to  being  the  listener,  merely 
crowding  in  a  nod  edgewise  between  his  rapidly 
spoken  sentences  and  disconnected  remarks,  that  to 
be  unexpectedly  called  upon  to  open  the  conversation 
took  her  completely  by  surprise.  He  stood,  rolling 
the  brim  of  his  hat  while  gripping  at  it  with  the 
tension  of  nervous  embarrassment.  The  seconds 
seemed  hours,  and  in  her  confusion  the  widow  said 
the  one  thing  she  had  schooled  herself  to  avoid. 
And  what  made  it  worse,  endeavored  to  check  her 
remark  in  its  midst,  which  effort  always  gives  em- 
phasis. She  had  asked  him  to  sit  down,  then  im- 
mediately attempted  to  divert  his  attention  from 
what  she  had  learned  to  feel  was  a  very  rude  remark, 
when,  to  her  consternation,  he  sat  down  on  the  steps. 
It  was  an  uneasy  position,  his  back  not  resting 
against  the  upper  step,  while  his  feet  remained 
drawn  up  ready  for  rising.  But  the.re  he  was,  sit- 
ting down,  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  him  off 
his  feet.  The  widow  was  now  prepared  for  any- 
thing, and  leaned  forward,  speechless  with  expecta- 
tion. He  did  not  look  into  her  face,  but,  fixing  his 


SI  2  TAMAM 

glance  on  the  hat  he  held,  continued  in  the  same  low 
tone  of  his  greeting. 

"  I  thought  to-night  I  would  tell  you  the  secret  of 
my  life  and  ask  you  to  join  me  in  its  keeping. 

"  When  I  came  to  live  with  you  I  was  a  fugitive, 
not  from  justice,  but  from  the  haunts  of  a  disap- 
pointed love.  I  believed  I  was  man  enough  to  create, 
for  myself,  a  new  life.  I  intended  to  make  it  a 
selfish  life,  sharing  what  peace  of  mind  might  come 
to  me  with  no  one,  live  for  myself  only,  and  draw  on 
all  the  unused  resources  of  nature's  world  for  diver- 
sion. I  felt,  burning  in  me,  the  spirit  of  retalia- 
tion ;  not  individual  hatred,  but  a  sense  of  pride  in 
the  ability  to  live  within  myself.  I  wished  to  show 
my  scorn  for  dependence — not  show  it  to  the  world, 
only  to  myself.  All  of  this  I  wanted  to  do  in  return 
for  a  wound  received  in  the  heart  of  my  youth.  I 
was  fortunate  in  coming  to  you,  for  here  I  have 
found  that  solace  and  contentment  most  essential  to 
my  needs.  The  trivial  acts  of  kindness  I  have  done 
for  you*were,  at  first,  my  pleasures ;  but  now  I  have 
come  to  feel  the  doing  of  them  is,  with  me,  a  neces- 
sity, and  were  the  privilege  denied  me  it  would  be 
to  smother  the  glow  of  hope  that  has  kindled  in  my 
heart. 

"  It  is  to  you  only  I  can  unburden  myself  and  tell 
of  the  secret  fires  of  love  by  which  I  have  been  con- 
sumed. You  and  I  have  not  been  perfect  strangers 
to  each  other.  We  found  the  bond  common  to  those 
who  have  suffered  some  of  the  many  disappointments 
of  life,  and  the  bond  has  grown  strong  enough  to  let 


THE    SEA  213 

me  open  my  heart  and  feel  I  will  not  be  rebuked  for 
insolence.  The  disparity  in  our  ages  is  of  no  con- 
sequence; some  young  hearts  are  old  and  some  older 
hearts  are  young,  while  an  entire  life  is  but  a  period- 
like  dot  without  dimensions.  All  who  ever  ferreted 
at  the  mystery  of  love  can  meet  on  common  ground, 
and  talk  as  man  to  man. 

"  Only  recently  has  the  spark  flared  up  and  shown 
me  the  fire  has  burned  continuously. 

"  Veritably,  a  voice  from  Heaven  has  spoken  words 
which  flooded  me  with  such  peace  as  the  most  long- 
ing soul  could  wish.  Since  then  I  have  not  lived 
on  earth,  but  have  dwelt  in  the  strangeness  of  an 
existence  hitherto  unknown.  The  bitterness  of  my 
life  has  changed  to  a  spirit  of  forgiveness,  and  I 
want  to  live,  from  now  on,  for  a  new  purpose.  I 
want  to  repay  myself  for  the  injury  I  have  suffered 
from  my  own  misinterpretations.  I  have  been  the 
frustrater  of  my  own  life's  intent.  I  owe  myself  a 
great  debt,  and  have  decided  to  undertake  the  pay- 
ment. I  will  do  this  by  throwing  off  the  old  disguise 
of  happiness,  which  has  been  nothing  more  than  the 
froth  of  affectation,  and  let  the  ebullition  of  my  new 
life  bubble  over,  if  it  will,  and  tell,  in  words  of  truth, 
of  the  contentment  that  has  at  last  come  to  me.  I 
tell  you  this  that  you  may,  if  you  will,  share  in  my 
joy  in  the  possession  of  this  true  peace,  while  you 
are  sharing,  with  me,  the  keeping  of  its  secret. 

"  I  have  loved  and  suffered,  and  lived  to  see  the 
gates  of  Heaven  open  and  show  to  me  there  is,  really, 
truth  in  life.  If  the  future  holds  for  me  no  other 


TAMAM 

purpose  than  that  of  living  to  forget  the  past,  I 
shall  be  well  provided  for,  and  ask  only  to  live  in  the 
quiet  here. 

"  She  who  has  my  heart  and  life  now  looks  down 
on  me,  and  through  the  twinkling  of  the  stars  I  see 
the  gleam  of  light  that  shines  from  the  window  of 
her  soul's  abode." 

He  arose  with  a  quick  movement,  as  if  seized  with 
a  desire  to  apologize  for  being  seated  in  her  pres- 
ence. The  series  of  unexpected  happenings  was  not 
yet  terminated.  For  the  fourth  time  he  violated  all 
precedents  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  took  her  hand 
and  looked  into  her  face.  In  tones  which  had  grown 
in  softness  and  in  the  rich  vibrant  quality  of 
male  voices  as  he  progressed  in  his  narrative,  he 
said: 

"  You  have  the  secret  of  my  life  I  know  I  can 
trust  you  with  its  keeping !  Good-night !  " 

Again  she  traced  him  through  the  woods  by  the 
insect  stillness  that  followed  his  way ;  and  when  she 
knew  he  had  reached  his  door,  she  went  to  the  upper 
window  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of  light  that 
would  come  from  his  cabin.  When  it  appeared,  she 
lighted  her  lamp  and  placed  it  on  a  table  near  the 
window.  She  watched  until  his  was  extinguished, 
then  lowered  the  curtain  in  front  of  her  own. 

It  was  the  morning  following  this  that  she  had 
twisted  the  little  curls  on  her  temples,  put  back  her 
"  scolding  locks,"  powdered  her  nose  and  put  on  a 
well-starched  dress  that  had  been  laid  away  for  many 
days.  Taking  up  a  basket  of  eggs,  she  got  into  her 


THE    SEA  215 

phaeton  with  such  elasticity  of  movement  that  the 
horse  seemed  to  scent  a  strangeness  in  her  actions 
and  started  off  before  she  had  gotten  well  seated, 
which  had  a  tendency  to  jar  the  widow,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  eggs.  This  furnished  sufficient  excuse 
for  her  to  give  him  a  sharp  cut  with  the  whip,  and 
away  they  went.  The  small  boy,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  run  behind  and  see  her  through  the  gates,  felt  the 
spirit  of  animation  take  root  in  him,  making  him 
kick  the  dust  into  a  cloud,  until  it  appeared  she  was 
going  much  faster  than  in  reality.  Indeed,  so  pre- 
occupied had  she  become,  and  invigorated  with  the 
idea  of  putting  new  life  into  everything,  that  she 
continued,  unconsciously,  to  jerk  the  reins  and  use 
the  whip  until  the  horse  broke  into  an  ungainly 
gallop.  In  checking  this  she  brought  him  to  a  sud- 
den stop,  which  proved  to  be  the  "  last  straw,"  so 
far  as  the  eggs  were  concerned. 

Upon  reaching  the  gate  of  the  home  she  intended 
to  visit,  she  was  greeted  by  two  young  women,  who, 
having  seen  her  hurried  approach,  were  excited  as  to 
the  possibility  of  some  one  at  her  place  having  been 
injured,  and  the  widow's  mission  being  to  solicit  aid 
in  the  care  of  that  person. 

"  I  came  over  to  bring  you  the  eggs  you  wished," 
said  the  widow,  when  it  became  necessary  she  should 
explain  her  mission. 

The  young  women  looked  at  the  powder  on  her 
nose,  at  the  lisle-thread  "  half-handers  "  which  she 
was  wearing,  and  glanced  at  each  other. 

"  We  intended  coming  over  for  them,"  replied  one, 


216  TAMAM 

in  an  injured  tone  which  clearly  expressed  her  dis- 
appointment. 

"  I  thought  I  could  save  you  that  trouble,"  the 
widow  replied,  with  an  effort  to  conceal  her  exult- 
ance  in  having  so  cleverly  avoided  the  intrusion,  as 
she  now  felt  their  presence  would  have  been.  "  And, 
besides,"  she  continued,  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you  for 
the  pattern  of  your  new  dress." 

What  on  earth  does  she  mean?  thought  one  young 
woman,  almost  loud  enough  to  be  heard. 

"  Do  you  mean  mamma's  pattern  ?  "  queried  the 
other  young  woman. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  replied  the  widow,  "  I  am  going  to 
dress  differently  from  heretofore.  My  clothes  are 
much  beyond  those  for  a  woman  of  my  age,  and  as 
I  am  going  out  of  mourning,  I  think  I  ought  to  be 
more  careful  in  the  selection  of  my  styles — and  then, 
there  are  other  reasons ;"  and  she  tossed  her  head  in 
a  very  knowing  manner. 

The  two  young  women  were  so  completely  routed, 
they  could  think  of  nothing  to  say ;  whereupon  one 
suggested  she  would  get  the  pattern. 

When  this  was  handed  her,  the  widow  remarked, 
"  I  will  bring  it  back  when  I  have  finished ;"  after 
which  she  started  on  her  return. 

The  young  women  pushed  back  their  sun-bonnets 
and  looked  into  each  other's  face  for  the  meaning 
of  all  this. 

"  Did  you  take  in  the  eggs  ?  "  asked  the  one  who 
had  gone  for  the  pattern. 

"  No,"   replied   the   other,  "  she   forgot   to   leave 


THE    SEA  217 

them.  Did  you  take  in  that  powder  rag  she  had 
tucked  in  the  corner  of  the  seat,  and  that  white 
linen  skirt  she  was  wearing?  " 

Approaching  home,  the  widow  spied  her  tenant, 
and  timed  her  speed  that  she  might  reach  the  house 
just  as  he  chanced  to  pass,  knowing  he  would  stop 
and  greet  her. 

When  within  calling  distance  he  addressed  her 
with  the  remark,  chiding  in  tone,  that  the  neighbor- 
hood was  aroused  as  to  her  action,  and  had  made 
inquiry  if  her  fast  driving  indicated  trouble  of  any 
kind? 

Her  reply  was  to  the  effect  that  she  had  merely 
gone  to  take  some  eggs,  so  "  those  girls  "  would  not 
be  coming  over  for  them,  with  which  remark  she 
gathered  her  skirts  preparatory  to  leaving  the 
phaeton. 

It  was  then  she  recalled  her  failure  to  leave  the 
eggs,  and  immediately  released  the  folds,  allowing 
her  skirt  to  cover  the  basket,  and  settled  back  as  if 
she  had  concluded  to  drive  elsewhere. 

"  I  must  do  another  errand,"  she  explained,  at  the 
same  time  taking  up  the  fallen  reins  and  hastening 
to  turn  around  before  he  should  discover  the  egg 
basket. 

"  Going  to  take  eggs  again  ? "  he  called  out. 
"  Better  go  slower,  it  might  be  safer  for  the  eggs. 
And  ii*any  one  inquires  about  your  hurry  I  will  tell 
them  you  are  '  renewing  your  youth,' ':'  and  he 
laughed  with  the  spirit  of  one  who  is  truly  at  peace 
with  himself. 


218  TAMAM 

The  widow  felt  cut  to  the  quick.  Had  he  seen  the 
eggs,  and  was  it  a  jibe  of  cruel  sarcasm? 

She  urged  the  horse,  as  she  felt  the  tears  start 
down  her  face ;  and  knowing  they  would  soon  mix  with 
the  powder,  took  off  the  lisle-thread  half-handers, 
which  he  had  not  even  seen,  and  rubbed  her  face 
with  them  to  be  sure  there  would  be  no  powder 
left. 

The  taunt  he  had  given  stung  her  until  she  felt 
the  vehemence  of  feminine  hatred  fill  her  breast. 

"  How  dare  he  talk  to  me  in  such  a  manner,  and 
the  first  time  since  his  confession  of  love  for  me  last 
night !  " 

But  ah!  those  words  of  last  night  were  such  that 
even  now  they  were  a  balm  to  her  wounded  heart,  and 
perchance  he  did  not  intend  his  jibe  should  be  so 
cruel  as  it  seemed.  Her  heart  lightened,  and  she  felt 
for  the  powder  rag,  resolving  to  take  his  remark  as 
a  familiarity  due  to  their  new  relation.  Once  more 
her  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  wrinkled  in  powder. 
She  turned,  hoping  to  reach  home  unexpectedly  while 
he  was  away  from  the  house.  Arriving,  she  hurried 
out  of  the  phaeton,  taking  with  her  the  basket  from 
which  trickled  yellow  strings  of  broken  eggs. 

But  he  had  seen  her  turn  back,  and  accordingly 
retraced  his  steps,  making  the  house  as  she  disap- 
peared through  the  doorway.  In  the  same  laughing 
spirit,  he  asked  her,  "  Did  you  forget  the  eggs?  " 

She  pretended  not  to  hear,  and  remained  inside, 
watching  him  through  the  partly  open  door. 

Picking  up  two  articles  left  on  the  phaeton  seat, 


THE    SEA  219 

he  called  to  her,  saying  she  had  forgotten  more  than 
the  eggs.  Innocently,  he  examined  the  pattern  and 
the  powder  rag  as  he  carried  them  to  the  door. 

She  hurried  to  her  room,  and  did  what  women  do 
when  they  must  give  vent  to  the  same  harnessed  feel- 
ings a  man  releases  when  he  swears. 

His  words  of  the  evening  before  continued  to  ring 
in  her  ears,  and  the  balm  in  them  had  not  ceased  to 
be  effective,  even  now.  She  soon  emerged,  arrayed 
in  the  freshness  of  her  dream  of  youth,  and  the  same 
well-starched  skirt,  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
sweet  spirit  of  forgiveness.  But  some  kind  of  an 
ill  wind  seemed  blowing  for  her  that  day. 

While  bringing  in  the  articles  left  behind  he  had 
observed  the  trail  of  eggs  from  the  phaeton  to  the 
door,  and  upon  her  reappearance  he  broke  into  a  fit 
of  laughter. 

Rather  than  laughter,  she  had  expected  a  com- 
pliment, and  feeling  the  blood  in  her  veins  grow  hot 
with  indignation,  she  cast  her  eyes  downward  and 
discovered  the  horrible  streaks  of  yellow  on  her  white 
skirt  just  as  he,  having  the  phaeton  in  mind,  said, 
"  I  noticed  you  brought  some  of  the  eggs  home  with 
you." 

What  could  she  do?  She  had  gone  in  before,  had 
had  her  cry,  and  forgiven  him.  What  else  can  a 
woman  do?  She  decided  quickly,  and  it  was  she 
would  now  do  neither.  How  dare  he  tamper  with  her 
feelings !  Henceforth  they  would  be  strangers. 

A  diet  of  nectar,  fed  by  the  hands  of  Hebe  and 
Ganymede,  would  prove  satiating,  if  continued  with- 


220  TAMAM 

out  interruption,  and  how  much  more  so  is  it  with 
eggs. 

It  was  smears  of  egg  the  widow  now  saw  over 
everything.  There  sprung  in  her  heart  a  wish  that 
she  might  never  again  so  much  as  hear  the  cackle 
of  a  hen. 

Composing  herself  to  the  uttermost,  she  replied  by 
the  venomous  hiss  of  silence,  and  went  into  the  house, 
leaving  him  thoroughly  mystified. 

Her  beautiful  dream  of  love  had  proved  a  night- 
mare, and  all  caused  by  too  much  egg. 

She  felt  thoroughly  tired  from  the  day's  happen- 
ings, and  after  discarding  the  egg-stained  skirt,  re- 
sorted to  that  rest  derived  from  meditation.  Unin- 
tentionally she  fell  asleep  in  her  chair,  and  it  may 
be  her  dream  was  of  the  Elysian  days  of  youth,  when 
nature  painted  her  cheek  with  a  pomade  of  holly- 
hock scarlet  and  the  cream  of  buttercup.  Whatever 
it  may  have  been,  she  was  awakened  by  the  clatter 
of  heels  on  the  pavement,  to  see  two  young  women 
standing  at  her  door-step. 

Her  greeting  was  perfunctory,  and  coupled  with 
it  she  extended  the  borrowed  pattern,  explaining  she 
had  concluded,  after  all,  the  style  would  not  suit 
her. 

"  We  came  for  the  eggs  you  forgot  to  leave,"  was 
all  they  could  say  in  reply. 


The  "  breaking  of  home  ties  "  is  a  theme  that  has 
long  appealed  to  imaginative  and  constructive  tern- 


THE    SEA 

peraments.  It  is  a  theme  dealing  with  the  future, 
and  future  means  promise.  It  glitters  with  incen- 
tives and  the  possibilities  for  toning. 

There  is  another  theme,  cold,  unpopular  and 
avoided.  It  relates  to  the  plain  realities  of  the 
past.  Here  the  speculative  is  dimmed,  and  concep- 
tions are  confronted  with  facts.  Facts  are  devoid 
of  plasticity,  no  fit  material  for  moulding  purposes. 

The  return  to  the  old  home  of  one  shorn  of  prom- 
ise of  the  future,  and  burdened  with  the  facts  of 
the  past,  is  a  theme  difficult  of  illumination. 

The  posthumous  daughter  was  again  at  "  Forest 
Retreat."  She  had  essayed  in  the  glare  of  pride 
in  determination,  only  to  return  in  the  silence 
of  the  vanquished.  The  restful  quiet  of  the  place 
seemed  but  to  accentuate  the  hum  of  foreign  sounds 
that  lingered  in  her  ears,  and  she  suffered  the  tor- 
tures of  those  who  are  thrown  from  a  life  of  activity 
into  the  sluggish  calm  of  idleness.  This,  coupled 
with  the  resultant  despondency  due  to  apparent  fail- 
ure, which  in  turn  was  coupled  with  the  burning 
secret  of  its  cause,  seemed  likely  to  bring  about  the 
undoing  of  the  hidden  force  that  had  buoyed  her 
through  the  sea  of  doubt  she  had  so  long  known.  It 
seemed  her  cup  of  sorrow  must  be  full;  and  as  the 
most  bitter  draughts,  under  continued  administra- 
tion, diminish  in  their  nauseous  effects,  was  it  pos- 
sible she  had  suffered  all?  There  is  consolation  in 
the  belief  that  the  acme,  even  in  despair,  has  been 
reached,  for  this  brings  with  it  the  promise  of  im- 
munity from  future  suffering. 


222  TAMAM 

These  thoughts  were  dwelling  in  her  mind  when, 
as  though  a  bit  of  the  nebulae  in  the  skies  had 
agglutinated  and  fallen  in  her  path,  a  garland  of 
roses  reached  "  Forest  Retreat,"  bearing  his  name 
as  the  sender. 

Were  the  cold  marble  of  a  Pygmalion  to  actually 
fill  with  the  warmth  of  life,  the  apparition  would  in 
itself  prove  stupefying  to  our  comprehension,  and 
produce  a  reflex  action  of  the  brain,  such  that  it 
would  appear  to  us  as  a  foreseen  possibility.  In  the 
same  sense,  a  voice  actually  coming  from  the  grave 
would  not  disturb  our  state  of  normal  composure. 
So  it  was,  the  garland  spoke  to  her  as  a  matter  of 
course,  a  voice  always  expected  and  impatiently 
awaited. 

She  accepted  it  as  a  salutation  from  a  long-ab- 
sent one,  and  lapsed  into  that  dazed  state  one  does 
when  confronted  with  the  inability  to  disentangle 
one's  own  mental  confusion.  She  acknowledged  the 
receipt  of  the  garland  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  which 
had  brought  about  the  immediate  announcement  that 
he  would  visit  "  Forest  Retreat." 

And  in  the  calmness  of  relief  obtained,  when  the 
cause  of  the  bewilderment  is  no  longer  sought,  she 
awaited  him. 

One  of  the  many  artful  devices  of  Nature  is  to 
disassociate  growth  from  things  that  may  have  at 
some  time  formed  the  subject  of  our  mental  impres- 
sions. When  we  meet  the  stern  face  of  one  not  seen 
since  childhood,  we  feel  a  sense  of  resentment  that  the 
laughing  child  we  knew  should  deceive  us  by  wearing 


THE    SEA  223 

a  mask  streaked  with  the  lines  of  age  and  the  serious- 
ness of  purpose. 

The  posthumous  daughter  knew  him  only  as  the 
one  she  had  left  myrtle-crowned  in  the  graveyard 
years  before.  When  he  came,  it  was  as  the  meeting 
of  perfect  strangers  who  have  one  common  thought 
— they  have  known  the  same  two  people  who  knew 
each  other,  years  before. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  "  she  asked  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  feels  their  acts  have  been  ob- 
served in  secrecy. 

"  Have  you  not  always  been  here?  "  he  replied. 

She  felt  chagrined  that  her  life  had  been  of  so 
trivial  consequence  to  him,  and  remained  silent,  won- 
dering what  it  all  meant.  She  thought  it  appro- 
priate to  ask  why  he  had  sent  the  flowers,  and  did  so, 
making  it  clearly  evident,  through  the  inflection  of 
her  sentence,  as  to  the  state  of  her  feelings. 

Of  the  thoughts  that  ran  through  his  mind,  of 
the  words  he  might  have  spoken,  of  the  peace  each 
had  so  long  sought  and  which  might  come  with  the 
kindling  of  a  single  ray  of  warmth  in  his  eye,  it 
seemed  not  one  of  these  could  be  tuned  to  the  har- 
mony of  strangeness  that  had  invaded  their  rela- 
tions. 

Why  had  he  sent  the  garland?  The  question 
assumed  a  spectre-like  form  and  appeared  to  stand 
before  him  demanding  satisfaction.  He  waited, 
wondering  if  the  spectre  could  be  satisfied  by  his  sug- 
gestion as  to  a  fitting  use  for  it.  He  thought  of  a 
happy  life,  known  long,  long  ago,  before  the  morbid 


224  TAMAM 

pallor  of  disappointment  spread  over  his  counte- 
nance. A  life  long  since  but  a  faint  and  lingering 
spark  that  could  not  be  smothered,  either  by  the 
plunging  of  himself  into  new  environment  teeming 
with  changed  conditions,  or  from  the  starving  of  it 
through  philosophical  abstinence  in  meditation. 
How  persistently  the  spark  had  held  on,  finally  to 
flare  up  in  what  had  proved  to  be  the  consuming 
of  false  hope  as  a  fuel.  The  new  hope  was,  after 
all,  but  the  death-throes  of  that  life,  the  muscular 
contraction  that  follows  the  long  stillness  and  im- 
mediately precedes  dissolution.  That  life  had  now 
been  consumed,  and  could  not  the  flowers  be  placed 
on  its  grave?  Or,  could  he  admit  the  interpreta- 
tion he  had  made  from  the  sending  to  him  of  that 
strange  diary,  and  frankly  say  the  flowers  had  been 
intended  for  her  grave?  The  spleen  of  retaliation 
almost  forced  him  to  suggest  them  as  a  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  the  life  he  had  once  known  in  her.  A 
flood  of  thought  filled  him,  but  the  silence  remained 
unbroken.  He  knew  he  must  answer  the  direct  ques- 
tion she  had  put.  His  reply  was  prefaced  by 
pointing  to  a  large  aspen  tree,  not  many  feet  away, 
that  had  never  ceased  to  tremble  in  its  watch  over  the 
sleep  of  those  resting  in  its  shade. 

"  Near  that  tree  there  once  sat  a  little  girl  with 
uplifted  face,  and  in  pleading  tones  begged  a  small 
boy,  who  was  climbing  it,  not  to  go  so  high.  But  on 
he  went,  until  the  height  was  reached  where  the 
branches  became  slender  and  swayed  with  the  winds. 
The  little  girl's  uneasiness  increased  with  the  height 


THE    SEA  225 

of  his  climb,  but  he  was  strong-hearted,  and  her 
tears  were  an  inspiration  to  him.  Out  on  one  of  the 
branches  he  went,  and  as  it  bent  and  swayed,  he 
rocked  on  the  sea  of  pride  that  rolled  about  him, 
while  the  little  girl  buried  her  face  and  moaned  in 
piteous  fear  for  his  safety.  Finally  he  came  down, 
and  in  reply  to  such  scolding  as  she  could  give  be- 
tween her  sobs,  pointed  out  the  initials  of  her  name 
carved  on  the  very  topmost  branch.  That  little 
girl  and  that  little  boy  live  no  more.  In  the  grave- 
yard of  childhood  the  breath  of  the  poppy  gives 
them  sleep,  while  they  dream  of  the  things  that  hap- 
pen only  in  the  world  of  little  people.  We  knew 
them.  Let  us  place  the  flowers  on  their  graves." 

"And  I  have  been  dead  to  you  since  then?  "  she 
asked  immediately. 

He  searched  his  heart,  and  replied,  with  that  in- 
flection which  indicates  perfect  assurance  as  to  the 
truth  of  a  statement,  "  Yes,  for  a  time." 

When  she  spoke  the  white  imprint  of  teeth  in  her 
feverishly  crimsoned  lips  gave  evidence  as  to  the 
torrent  of  emotion  that  filled  her. 

"  Likewise,  I  have  placed  flowers  on  your  grave," 
and  a  smile,  nearly  akin  to  that  of  perfidy,  played  in 
her  face  as  she  thought  how  true  were  the  words 
she  had  spoken,  and  how  his  ignorance  of  her 
meaning  would  make  them  sting  as  his  had  stung 
her. 

"  Then  we  have  been  dead  to  each  other,"  he  sug- 
gested, implying  his  was  in  a  symbolical  sense,  as 
had  been  his  interpretation  of  her  allusion. 


226  TAMAM 

"  Yes,"  was  her  response,  being  equally  drenched 
in  the  same  sea  of  dilemma. 

Would  that  the  life-boat,  strong  and  sure,  so 
needed  on  the  treacherous  seas  of  misconstruction, 
could  be  launched  and  the  hand  of  fate  prove  timely 
for  the  rescue  of  these  two  souls,  fast  sinking  and 
grappling  each  other  with  the  clutch  of  drowning 
men,  as  the  crest  of  each  wave  breaks  and  smothers 
them  in  the  foam  of  its  fury ! 

"  It  remained  for  you  to  taunt  the  living  flesh 
of  the  dead  spirit,"  she  began ;  "  and  though  the  sole 
right  to  break  silence  was  yours,  yet  your  first  shaft 
came  from  ambush.  It  reached  home,  and  poisoned 
with  sarcasm  though  it  was,  faith  in  the  strength 
of  my  own  self  proved  an  antidote  to  its  virulence." 

With  the  delivery  of  this  reproach,  she  handed  him 
the  letter  once  rumpled  in  a  fit  of  anger,  and  whose 
creases  had  been  smoothed  in  the  compassion  of  her 
after-thought.  She  waited,  in  the  same  triumphant 
spirit  of  the  days  gone  by  when  in  their  passages  of 
wit  she  had  scored. 

His  reply  was  in  tones  submissively  measured,  as 
if  each  thought  were  being  carefully  considered. 

"  I  wrote  this,  but  I  did  not  send  it.  I  could  not 
have  sent  it,  and  wrote  it  to  prove  this  to  myself. 
It  was  done  in  an  idle  moment,  and  but  the  unbur- 
dening to  myself  of  what  was  in  my  heart.  It  could 
not  have  been  intended  for  other  eyes  than  mine, 
which  thought  developed  in  me  a  hatred  of  myself, 
and,  to  be  candid,  of  you.  In  idleness,  I  attempted 


THE    SEA  227 

to  reconcile  myself.  I  believed  the  letter  was  de- 
stroyed." 

It  was  a  confession  in  which  he  had  shown  no 
mercy  for  himself,  and  left  him  with  the  advantage 
of  one  who  outwits  his  opponent  by  pleading  guilty. 

"  May  I  ask,"  he  continued,  "  why  you  sent  this 
to  me?  "  and  he  handed  to  her  the  mysterious  mes- 
senger that  had  played  between  them,  the  pocket 
diary. 

As  soon  as  she  could  get  the  four  words  formed 
into  a  sentence,  she  asked: 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?  " 

The  inaudibility  of  his  reply  made  it  known  to 
her  that  he  had. 

It  may  be  she  would  have  had  him  answer  as  he 
did.  No  heart  ever  bleeds  that  would  always  have 
its  lacerations  concealed.  Every  entry  made  in  the 
secret  journal  of  the  heart's  longings  is  instilled 
with  an  inborn  faith  in  the  transmission  of  mental 
impressions,  and  a  fugitive  hope  that  fate  may  de- 
cree the  discovery  of  the  entries  at  the  crucial 
moment,  and  under  the  desired  conditions  of  psycho- 
logical importance. 

She  was  transported  back  to  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed his  leaving,  when  she  had  lived  strong  in  the 
faith  of  his  eventual  return.  Her  reply  was  in 
tones  showing  self-composure  of  remarkable  force. 

"  I  did  not  send  it.  I  could  not  send  it.  It  was 
not  the  thought  of  an  idle  moment  but  the  deliberate 
unburdening  of  my  heart,  under  calmest  reflection. 


It  could  have  been  for  no  eyes  other  than  mine, 
though  I  would  have  had  you  read  it  after  mine  had 
been  closed  forever  that  you  might  know  I  had  suf- 
fered. It  was  written  with  my  life  blood,  and  every 
thought  was  a  truth.  I  longed  for  words  to  express 
their  real  depths.  The  book  was  lost.  I  prayed  it 
might  never  be  seen  by  human  eyes,  and  that  in  my 
eternal  sleep  I  should  dream  the  message  was  carried 
to  you." 

He  felt  himself  fill  with  pride  in  having  so  thor- 
oughly acted  in  accord  with  what  she  had  just  said, 
when  on  that  night  he  had  read  what  he  believed  to 
have  been  intended  for  no  other  eyes  than  hers.  He 
realized  she  had  again  outwitted  him.  While  his 
confession  had  been  more  nearly  a  compromise,  hers 
was  a  clean  breast  of  sincerity.  His  thoughts  re- 
verted to  the  evening  in  the  graveyard,  the  laughing 
indifference  she  had  shown,  all  since  explained 
through  the  mysterious  messenger.  And  she,  too, 
had  suffered,  like  himself,  and  had  borne  her  suffer- 
ing without  harboring  the  hatred  that  had  come  with 
his.  He  wished  he  had  spoken  the  full  truth,  and 
told  her  the  message  had  come  to  him  as  a  voice  from 
Heaven ;  but  then  he  would  have  found  himself  in  the 
position  of  standing  before  one  with  flowers  in  hand 
to  lay  on  one's  grave.  He  remained  silent,  ponder- 
ing heavily. 

Silence  is  not  always  golden,  and  it  was  during  his 
that  her  mind  dwelt  on  the  thought  he  had  be- 
queathed his  soul  to  one  now  abiding  in  the  peace  of 
Heaven.  She  felt  he  meditated  on  his  declaration  to 


THE    SEA  229 

that  soul,  the  knowledge  of  which  had  been  revealed 
to  her  in  a  manner  so  strange  she  dare  not  let  the 
thought  linger  in  her  mind.  That  he  had  loved 
another  was  in  itself  enough  to  stifle  her  sense  of  com- 
prehension, and  she  did  not  care  to  rehearse  the 
ordeals  attendant  upon  its  revelation. 

Feeling  she  was  in  possession  of  the  situation,  she 
continued,  "  I  have  not  been  here  always.  I  went 
to  search  among  those  who  live  only  in  the  memory 
of  a  grateful  nation — to  find  you,"  and  her  words 
trembled.  "  I  found  you,  but  not  there." 

He  waited  to  catch  her  first  utterance  in  explana- 
tion. 

She  felt  he  was  considering  the  most  compassion- 
ate way  of  breaking  to  her  the  information  she  pos- 
sessed in  secret. 

"  I  have  not  told  you,"  he  began — 

Could  she  let  him  speak  the  cruel  words  and  watch 
her  writhe  like  a  singed  worm?  No,  it  was  better 
that  she  tell  him,  and  as  if  his  words  had  gone  un- 
noticed, she  continued: 

"  I  knew  that  your  heart  and  life  were  given  to 
another.  You  have  read  the  sacred  pages  of  my 
life,"  and  she  glanced  at  the  diary,  whose  leaves  she 
was  fingering.  She  said  something  further,  but  he 
did  not  hear  it.  The  sentence,  "  I  knew  your  heart 
and  life  were  given  to  another,"  echoed  in  his  ears. 
There  flashed  through  his  mind  how  ridiculous  was 
the  situation  in  which  the  widow  could  have  placed 
him,  and  the  possibility  of  some  malicious  distortion 
having  preceded  him  to  "  Forest  Retreat."  The 


230  TAMAM 

absurdity  of  the  widow's  egg  episode  completely  oc- 
cupied his  thought. 

It  may  have  been  the  psychological  moment  of 
importance  in  the  unheard  narrative,  or  the  crucial 
interval  of  silence  that  followed,  but  at  her  pause  he 
prefaced  the  continuation  of  his  interrupted  words 
with  a  smile. 

As  though  a  poignard  had  been  thrust  in  her 
heart,  she  buried  her  face,  and  the  long-tried  lash- 
ings that  had  weathered  so  many  tempests  on  her 
sea  of  life  broke. 

Her  released  emotion  assumed  a  hysterical  form, 
and  between  the  convulsions  produced  by  the  burst 
of  bitter  anguish  she  pleaded,  in  the  voice  of  a  sup- 
plicant for  mercy,  that  he  leave  her.  What  to  do 
he  did  not  know.  His  words  fell  as  though  on  one 
bereft  of  the  sense  of  hearing,  and  he  lingered  in 
speech  and  step. 

Feeling  he  had  left  her  presence,  she  rose,  and, 
finding  him  yet  waiting  in  mute  astonishment,  she 
commanded  all  the  reserve  strength  in  her  body. 
She  faced  him  in  silence,  raised  one  arm,  not  with  the 
upturned  palm  of  pleading,  but  hand  closed  with 
the  intensity  of  determination,  save  the  index  finger, 
which  was  extended.  Like  one  of  the  "  Furiae  "  she 
stood,  defiantly  immovable.  For  a  moment  he 
waited,  looking  at  her,  magnificent  in  her  wrath. 

The  wondrous  depths  of  blue  in  her  eyes  changed 
from  the  azure  warmth  of  summer  skies  to  the  soul- 
less cast  of  winter.  The  raven  black  hair,  still  like 
a  weighty  fold  of  silken  turban,  hung  about  her  fore- 


THE    SEA  231 

head,  but  now  entwined  with  threads  of  pure  silver, 
far  more  artistically  intricate  than  any  save  the 
hand  of  Nature  could  produce.  Her  chiseled  fea- 
tures had  the  blanch  of  marble,  and  were  it  not  for 
the  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast,  which  came  with  her 
labored  breathing  intermingled  with  a  partially  suc- 
cessful effort  to  control  the  convulsive  sobs  that  filled 
her,  she  would  have  been  a  statue  wonderfully  perfect, 
and  classic  in  the  interpretation  of  "  Marshalled  Re- 
serve Force."  Her  voice,  still  limpid  in  inflection  and 
liquid  in  tone,  was  hushed  to  his  ears,  while  the  point- 
ing hand  spoke  volumes.  He  obeyed  and  turned 
away.  Had  he  looked  back  he  would  have  witnessed 
the  transformation  of  "  Defiance "  into  "  Grief," 
with  the  same  pose,  but  the  extended  arm  turned 
backward  to  bury  the  face. 


When  he  had  returned  from  "  Forest  Retreat  "  the 
"  sea  of  dilemma  "  had  lost  none  of  its  turbulence. 
The  widow  was  fairly  strangling  in  the  drenching 
of  its  fury,  so  unaccountable  had  his  actions  be- 
come. Just  as  she  was  regaining  prestige  in  the 
matter  of  his  confidence,  after  her  heroic  and  suc- 
cessful effort  to  return  to  the  even  tenor  of  her  way 
and  bide  the  time  when  he  would  again  broach  that 
very  tender  subject,  love,  his  movements  became  more 
mysterious  than  ever.  She  had  of  course  noted  his 
absence.  She  noted  everything,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  conspicuous  than  his  being  away  from  home. 

A  characteristic  of  some  people  is   their   ability 


TAMAM 

to  ingratiate  themselves  into  the  existence  of  dumb 
animals.  They  who  possess  this  power  are  able  to 
exercise  much  of  control  over  the  animals'  habits  and 
dispositions,  particularly  domestic  animals.  The 
widow's  tenant  was  endowed  with  this  property.  If 
information  were  obtainable  through  no  other  source, 
the  disturbance  in  the  life  of  that  small  portion  of 
the  animal  kingdom  comprising  her  possessions  would 
have  made  known  to  the  most  casual  observer  the 
absence  of  some  one. 

It  was  with  intense  interest  she  had  awaited  his 
return.  When  the  horse  ceased  in  his  grazing  with 
head  toward  the  gate,  and  the  dogs  awoke  from  their 
stupor  of  indifference,  she  knew  he  was  at  home, 
though  she  had  not  seen  him. 

Suspicious  as  he  had  become  regarding  the  widow, 
and  the  possibility  of  her  having  betrayed  his  con- 
fidence, he  could  not  arouse  in  himself  the  courage  to 
face  her  immediately  upon  his  return.  To  the 
widow  this  was  ample  verification  of  her  belief  that 
his  absence  could  be  attributed  to  remorse  of  con- 
science, consequent  to  his  treatment  of  her.  She 
pictured  another  twilight  and  its  fall  of  softened 
shadows,  the  sweep  of  insect  stillness  through  the 
woodland  and  the  mystic  charm  of  the  gloaming. 
These  were  the  conditions  before,  and  she  remem- 
bered this  period  of  the  day  had  always  been  con- 
ducive to  loquaciousness  in  him. 

But  this  was  a  time  of  strange  happenings ;  and 
when  he  approached  her  while  the  day  was  in  the  full 
vigor  of  its  life,  though  himself  filled  with  lassitude, 


THE    SEA 

she  knew  he  had  spent  a  sleepless  night.  That  he 
had  something  of  importance  to  say  was  evident; 
furthermore,  it  was  plain  there  would  be  no  repeti- 
tion of  the  embarrassing  silence  that  had  occurred 
on  a  previous  occasion.  He  told  her,  in  very  few 
words,  that  he  had  decided  to  leave.  The  widow  was 
not  surprised.  She  would  not  have  been  had  he 
thrown  his  arms  about  her  neck  and  kissed  her. 
Nothing  could  surprise  her  longer;  she  had  lost  all 
bearings  in  the  "  sea  of  life."  At  the  least,  she  was 
relieved  in  mind  by  knowing  one  thing  definitely, 
even  if  it  was  that  he  no  longer  cared  for  her. 

While  she  could  not  be  properly  characterized  as 
stolid,  yet  the  very  absurdity  of  her  own  interpreta- 
tions designated  her  as  belonging  to  the  class  of 
medium  intelligence.  In  consequence,  the  fires  that 
had  been  so  readily  kindled  in  her  heart  were  as 
easily  extinguished;  and  with  slight  effort  she  was 
able  to  take  up  the  thread  of  life  where  she  had 
dropped  it,  the  day  he  had  presented  himself  as  an 
applicant  for  tenantship.  That  she  regained  her 
buxomness  and  ability  to  carry  eggs  in  safety, 
and  will  continue  through  happy  years  in  the  per- 
formance of  this  simple  pleasure,  is  a  safe  specu- 
lation. 

There  was  no  such  strong  hand  as  had  been 
reached  out  to  the  widow  to  lift  him  from  the  seeth- 
ing waters,  and  the  buffeting  of  life's  waves  had 
made  him  insufferably  sore.  After  a  decade  of 
storm-tossed  existence  his  first  anchorage — the 
widow's  farm  place  and  her  simple  companionship — 


234  TAMAM 

had  been  over  a  false  bottom.  He  would  never  again 
pin  his  faith  to  mortal  being. 

Memories  are  the  flavor  of  life's  fruits.  And  like 
the  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  fruits  of  life  are  char- 
acterized by  their  flavor.  Fruits  in  themselves  are 
nothing,  the  earth  is  covered  with  them ;  some  are  pro- 
lific in  yield,  though  devoid  of  flavor;  some  gor- 
geously colored,  bitter  and  astringent-like ;  some 
homely  in  hue,  scanty  in  yield,  but  filled  with  nec- 
tar, palatable  and  gratifying.  So  are  the  fruits 
of  life :  some  gross  and  characterless ;  some  nau- 
seous with  the  bitterness  of  disappointment ;  some 
deliciously  sweet  and  wholesome. 

It  was  after  an  inventory  of  his  storehouse  that 
the  nature  of  his  harvest  was  revealed.  He  had 
never  thirsted  for  the  huge  yields  of  a  characterless 
life,  any  more  than  he  had  expected  the  golden  de- 
ciduous fruits  that  abound  in  youth  to  become  peren- 
nials. He  had  trusted  to  be  able  to  fill  the  modest 
coffers  of  his  wants  with  fruits  of  a  flavor  that  would 
make  them  an  appetizing  diet  for  the  winter  of  life. 
But  some  unseen  larva  had  always  secreted  itself,  to 
later  gnaw  at  the  heart  of  his  purpose  and  thwart 
his  honest  intent,  until  the  granary  contained  only 
a  scant  supply,  and  of  homely  hue,  with  a  weevil 
safely  ensconced  in  every  kernel. 

Like  St.  Paul,  he  might  say,  "  I  have  fought  a 
good  fight."  But  could  he  view  himself,  in  the  per- 
fectness  of  manhood,  filled  with  the  strength  that 
matures  with  the  prime  of  life  when  youth  has  been 
cultured  with  moral  purity ;  could  he  look  at  the  un- 


THE    SEA  235 

blemished  graciousness  that  God  had  lavished  in  the 
making  of  his  body,  and  say,  "  My  course  is  run?  " 

That  tenacity  of  purpose  which  had  served  as 
king-pin  for  the  craft  in  which  he  had  braved  the 
"  sea  of  life  "  had  weakened  to  the  point  of  rupture, 
and  the  rigging  on  his  ship  of  destiny  was  an  en- 
tanglement of  frayed  cordage.  Henceforth  he  would 
navigate  in  stilled,  unfrequented  waters,  not  as  a 
regular  vessel  listed  in  the  registers  of  social  recogni- 
tion, but  a  "  tramp  ship." 

Since  the  morning  that  his  tramp  guest,  that 
diametrically  opposed  counterpart  of  his  own  per- 
sonality, had  passed  through  the  gateway  and  be- 
come absorbed  in  the  foliage  that  grew  by  the  road- 
sides^ he  had  inwardly  mistrusted  the  strength  of  his 
own  philosophy.  What  if  the  tramp  was  right  in 
his  theory  that  the  inconsistencies  of  life  could  be 
avoided  by  merely  declining  to  face  them. 

A  picture  was  fresh  in  his  mind  of  the  departing 
tramp  with  visage  wreathed  in  smiles  and  body 
wrapped  in  the  warmth  of  a  coat  that  had  been  his 
own.  The  happy  vagabond  was  right,  and  he  would 
find  him  that  he  might  tell  him.  He  would  seek  him, 
out  in  the  vastness  of  Nature's  freedom ;  search 
among  the  sweet-scented  blossoms  where  the  tireless 
bee  is  the  only  worker,  and  the  "  lily  that  toils  not  " 
reigns  supreme;  follow  along  the  course  of  the  idle 
rambles  of  brooks  and  rills  whose  waters  reflect  the 
gleams  of  sunlight  that  penetrate,  like  fire-tipped 
darts,  the  sheltering  foliage  of  the  swaying  trees; 
look  on  some  grassy  slope,  where  the  eye  could  feast 


236  TAMAM 

« 

on  the  symmetry  of  Nature  in  the  rise  of  her  hills 
and  the  slope  of  her  valleys,  where  the  soul  could  be 
satisfied  through  the  music  of  birds  that  blend  their 
song  with  the  voice  of  Nature,  where  thirst  could  be 
quenched  by  the  drinking  of  perfume  vapors  distilled 
from  the  richness  of  Nature's  fragrance  by  the 
warmth  of  her  sunshine.  At  some  of  these  places 
he  would  be  found,  selfishly  isolated,  nursing  the  wis- 
dom of  his  philosophy. 

Little  do  we  know  of  the  true  perspective  in  our 
mental  pictures.  Who  could  have  discerned  that  this 
hapless  wanderer  had  unknowingly  been  the  bearer 
of  a  fateful  message  to  the  posthumous  daughter, 
delivered  with  his  life,  and  whose  mutilated  body  now 
rested  in  the  potter's  field,  shielded  from  further  dis- 
turbance by  a  tombstone  bearing  an  epitaph  of  one 
word  encircled  by  an  olive  wreath? 

Parting  with  the  widow  and  her  farm  place  was 
nothing;  simply  one  laugh,  perhaps,  though,  a  hys- 
terical laugh  of  derision,  or  a  Mephisto  jeer! 

Through  the  same  gateway  he  went;  and  as  he 
saw  in  the  distance  where  the  foliage  appeared  to 
form  a  solid  mass  across  the  roadway,  he  hastened 
that  he  might  reach  it  and  become  absorbed.  From 
the  treacherous  channels  of  life  he  sought  harbor  in 
the  peaceful  folds  of  oblivion. 

Shall  we  go  through  the  foliage  for  just  one 
glimpse  of  him  while  in  the  fullest  enjoyment  of  that 
peace  of  mind  to  which  he  is  so  justly  entitled;  to 
hear  his  laugh  echoed  in  the  laugh  of  the  brooks  and 
rills  he  had  sought?  Will  he  grudge  us  this  jot  of 


THE  SEA  237 

satisfaction,  or  is  he  selfishly  isolated  in  the  nursing 
of  his  new-born  philosophy? 

The  kingfisher,  that  flies,  arrow-like,  up  and  down 
the  winding  course  of  the  rill,  and  the  Indian  hen, 
that  wades  in  the  shallow  water  along  its  edges,  flew 
up  with  a  scream.  This  caused  the  air  to  become 
filled  with  the  whirr  of  wild  fowl  that  lived  in  har- 
monious relationship  by  the  waters  that  reflected  the 
flight  of  the  fire-tipped  darts. 

There  had  been  a  pistol  shot,  followed  by  a 
splash  and  the  subsequent  gurgling  of  water  as  the 
bubbles  of  air  carried  into  it  escaped. 

Not  many  days  later  the  body  of  a  man,  in  the 
prime  of  life,  swollen  and  discolored,  too  far  advanced 
in  the  stages  of  decomposition  to  admit  of  identifica- 
tion, had  floated  away  from  the  quiet  of  the  rill  into 
a  more  frequented  vicinity.  When  it  was  dragged 
ashore,  all  traces  of  the  self-inflicted  wound  were 
obliterated.  Men,  each  with  one  hand  serving  to 
muffle  his  nose,  rolled  it  into  a  crude  box  and  hurried 
away  to  the  ridges  where  the  counted  countless  sleep. 

The  kingfisher  and  the  Indian  hen  have  since  re- 
turned to  their  sentinel  duties  and  the  wild  fowl  are 
quiet,  sleepily  watching  the  fire-tipped  darts  that 

penetrate  the  foliage. 

#  #  #  *  # 

"  Forest  Retreat,"  are  the  sons  who  have  fed  on 
the  fruits  of  your  rich  soil,  those  sons  whose  birth- 
right was  the  heritage  of  that  spirit  which  enabled 
the  old  master  to  snatch  you  from  the  hand  of  the 


238  TAMAM 

red  man,  and,  out  of  your  pristine  ignorance  and 
wildness,  evolve  a  seat  of  culture;  are  those  sons 
shirking?  Is  this  why  the  shrewd  "  tobacco- 
grower  "  has  been  able  to  obtain  so  many  little 
"  strips  "  "  on  the  shares,"  until  it  became  necessary 
to  bring  in  the  outer  fences?  Can  there  be  a  secret 
larva  gnawing  at  their  hearts?  Or  is  there  retro- 
gression in  the  one-time  great  community  of  condi- 
tions that  made  your  atmosphere  teem  with  thrift? 

The  odors  from  "  curing  "  tobacco  that  hung  in 
the  great  new  barns  and  overflowed  to  every  out- 
house on  the  place  were  in  no  sense  gratifying  to  the 
undaunted  spirit  though  weakened  flesh  of  the  post- 
humous daughter.  And  doubtless  the  great  aspens 
that  stood  in  the  graveyard  shivered  many  times 
at  the  thought  of  old  Major  Nicholson  being  left  in 
sole  possession  of  that  sacred  spot,  when  some  purse- 
inflated  magnate  would  have  bought  for  himself  a 
heritage. 

Once  more  the  posthumous  daughter  made  her  way 
to  the  graveyard.  No  young  man  followed  her: 
only  a  faithful  family  servant,  who  carried  a  chair, 
that  the  daughter  could  rest  at  frequent  intervals. 
The  servant  halted  at  the  gate,  then  wandered  down 
toward  the  great  fields  of  tobacco  so  threateningly 
near.  The  posthumous  daughter  did  not  go  to  the 
mound,  for  she  had  no  surplus  strength,  but  cau- 
tiously moved  through  the  entanglement  of  myrtle 
vines  that  matted  over  the  ground,  until  she  reached 
her  father's  grave.  There  she  sank  down  midst  the 
folds  of  her  sombre-colored  skirts,  rested  her  fore- 


THE    SEA  239 

arms  on  the  pedestal  of  the  headstone  and  buried  her 
face  between  her  hands. 

Again  the  stillness  of  the  graveyard  was  broken, 
though  by  faint  muffled  tones  that  escaped  between 
her  arms  as  she  spoke. 

"  Father !  look  down  upon  your  child :  she  whom 
you  have  never  seen,  save  through  the  starry  eyes  of 
Heaven !  Tell  me  what  I  have  done,  that  I  must 
suffer  the  smothering  of  a  bleeding  heart ! 

"  I  came  into  this  world,  half  orphan,  deprived 
of  the  precious  influence  of  your  love,  the  shielding 
protection  of  your  arm ;  born  only  to  kiss  away  the 
tears  from  a  widowed  mother's  eyes.  To  be  the 
living  embodiment  of  the  cause  for  which  you  died,  I 
have  endeavored  with  all  my  strength.  Like  you, 
why  could  I  not  have  died  on  the  firing-line  where 
my  life-blood  would  have  leaped  forth  in  the  glory 
of  some  earnest  purpose,  or  some  simple  cause,  or 
even  just  some  poor  little  trivial  act  of  insignificance, 
if  nothing  better?  Why  am  I  humiliated  in  life, 
without  hope  in  death?  You,  having  seen  all,  know 
the  truth. 

"  Open  your  arms  to  your  own  fatherless 
daughter!  Fold  me  to  your  bosom!  Tell  me  the 
mysteries  of  life !  " 

And  then  the  faithful  servant  supported  the 
daughter  as  she  passed  with  faltering  footsteps  along 
the  path  that  led  through  the  garden. 

The  trail  of  the  country  doctor's  buggy  never 
fails  to  arouse  interest.  Men  in  the  fields  stop  with 


240  TAMAM 

uplifted  tools ;  mothers  with  screaming  infants  in 
arms  crane  their  necks  through  partly  open  door- 
ways ;  children  in  the  roadside  school-houses  cease  in 
the  droning  of  their  studies  to  peer  over  the  tops 
of  their  books,  all  to  watch  the  course  of  the  doc- 
tor's buggy.  They  note  the  speed  of  his  horse,  the 
duration  of  his  visit,  and  watch  again  for  his  return 
that  they  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face. 

When  the  doctor's  buggy  turned  in  between  the 
stone  gate-posts  that  marked  the  entrance  to  "  For- 
est Retreat,"  and  remained  until  after  nightfall,  the 
neighbors  did  not  have  to  search  the  doctor's  counte- 
nance to  learn  as  to  the  gravity  of  the  case.  And 
when  the  curtains  remained  drawn  one  morning  they 
knew  the  doctor  had  made  his  last  visit  to  that 
patient. 

As  the  light  of  a  summer's  day  softly  fades  into 
the  calm  of  night;  as  the  dew  of  night  noiselessly 
lifts  from  the  petals  of  the  rose ;  as  the  breath  of  the 
rose  passes  into  the  ethereal  blue  of  the  skies,  so 
passed  the  life  of  the  posthumous  daughter ;  an 
euthanasia,  gently  lifted  into  the  arms  of  her  father, 
rescued  from  the  "  Sea  of  Doubt." 

God  had  noted  the  scream  of  the  kingfisher  and 
answered  her  prayer: 

"If  he  should  die  while  yet  I  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep, 
And  ere  the  time  I  should  awake, 
My  lonely  soul  He,  too,  will  take." 


OBLIVION 

"  Oblivion,  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed." 

WERE  the  moon  inhabited,  and  should  those  in- 
habitants train  a  telescope  of  sufficient  power  to  en- 
able them  to  scrutinize  life  and  its  resultant  crea- 
tions on  earth,  and  the  observer  could  sweep  north- 
ward and  southward  while  the  earth  revolved  on  its 
axis,  thus  presenting  the  earth  in  its  entirety,  he 
would  probably  train  his  instrument  on  the  small 
town  of  El-Geezeh  as  presenting  a  structural  work 
of  greatest  interest.  From  this  place,  for  a  distance 
of  fifty  miles  along  the  western  border  of  the  Nile, 
is  the  necropolis  of  the  dead  past  in  the  world's  his- 
tory. Herodotus,  the  first  chronicler  of  human 
events,  even  five  centuries  before  the  birth  of  Christ, 
was  no  nearer  the  solution  of  the  mysteries  hidden  in 
this  graveyard  than  are  we. 

Through  thousands  of  years  have  the  tombstones 
in  that  graveyard  kept  step  with  the  march  of  time; 
and  when  the  cycle  of  civilization's  advancement  will 
have  been  completed,  and  the  earth  encircled  with  its 
trail,  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  will  continue  to  stand 
as  the  mightiest  work  of  man. 

241 


243  TAMAM 

El-Geezeh  is  the  promontory  of  this  strange  bury- 
ing-ground,  containing  nine  of  the  thirty-nine  struc- 
tures constituting  a  barricade  against  which  the 
world's  material  and  contemporary  history  of  the 
phases  of  human  accomplishments  can  make  no  ad- 
vance. Among  these  nine  there  stands  one  which  is 
not  only  the  largest  but  probably  the  oldest.  Cheops 
lays  claim  as  the  first  of  the  existing  works  of  human 
hands ;  not  through  tradition,  for  it  had  been  silent 
three  thousand  years  before  the  birth  of  tradition ; 
but  through  a  study  of  Egypt's  topography,  Cheops 
is  seen  to  stand  as  the  focal  point  of  the  empire, 
equidistant  from  its  shores,  and  a  harbor  light  for 
the  great  Sahara  on  whose  border  it  is  placed. 

Stand  at  the  base  of  Cheops  and  marvel.  Moses 
stood  there;  so  did  Cleopatra  and  Napoleon.  How 
trivial  seems  the  name  of  Napoleon  in  this  connec- 
tion,— the  comparison  of  mushrooms  to  mountains, 
—yet,  a  Human  Pyramid  of  the  Living  Present 
would  more  nearly  describe  Napoleon.  Our  might 
hurled  against  that  impenetrable  breastwork  of 
the  past  is  but  the  pelting  of  granite  with  snow- 
flakes. 

The  actual  seeing  of  these  structures  invariably 
proves  a  disappointment  to  those  who  previously 
formed  mental  pictures.  Nor  is  this  surprising:  for 
the  mind  has  greater  capacity  for  insight  than  has 
the  eye  for  material  comprehension,  since  the  eye 
merely  possesses  the  property  of  comparison,  and 
nowhere  on  earth  is  there  anything  comparable  with 
the  pyramids. 


OBLIVION  243 

The  form  of  these  structures,  their  mammoth  pro- 
portions, and  the  relative  proximity  of  their  loca- 
tions suggest  the  true  point  of  perspective  is  miles 
from  them.  And  standing  as  they  do,  outlined 
against  the  terrible  blankness  of  the  desert,  they  ap- 
pear to  take  on  the  vibrant  nature  of  its  atmosphere, 
until  one  sees  them  as  the  most  weird  of  spectres,  si- 
lently wending  their  way  on  their  mission  from  the 
unknown  past  to  the  equally  unknown  future,  con- 
temptuously oblivious  of  the  present. 

Nothing  so  quickly  lends  a  prosaic  color  to  poetic 
conceptions  as  does  the  suggestion  of  dimensions. 
Yet,  in  this  age  of  degenerate  temperaments,  facts 
serve  as  the  foremost  agent  in  the  marshaling  of  our 
appreciation.  The  builders  of  Cheops  displayed 
marked  ingenuity  in  their  efforts  to  dispel  any  tend- 
ency to  associate  mensuration  with  their  work.  This 
is  seen  in  their  chosen  design,  for  in  no  style  of  archi- 
tecture is  there  less  opportunity  for  display  than  in 
the  pyramid. 

Let  those  of  an  artisan  turn  of  mind  consider. 
The  base  of  Cheops  covers  thirteen  acres,  its  apex 
being  nearly  five  hundred  feet  above.  The  same 
material  arranged  in  the  equally  simple  form  of  a 
cube  would  have  been  many  times  more  conspicuous, 
and  correspondingly  less  durable  than  is  the  pyra- 
midal form,  which  form  of  architecture  possesses  the 
greatest  resistant  qualities  to  the  weathering  effects 
of  climatic  agents.  Here  is  the  suggestion  of  an 
attempt  to  withstand  time,  rather  than  produce  an 
overpowering  presence. 


244  TAMAM 

Preparatory  to  the  erection  of  the  structure  a 
mountain  of  stone  was  hewn  down  to  the  form  of  a 
base,  and  the  hewings  removed.  Stones,  some  of 
which  are  eight  yards  in  length  and  three  yards 
square  in  section,  were  presumably  brought  from  the 
Arabian  mountains,  five  hundred  miles  distant,  for 
use  in  its  building. 

What  historians  say  regarding  the  pyramids  is  of 
no  consequence,  for  no  one  can  know ;  but  what  they 
do  say  is,  that  it  has  been  more  than  four  thousand 
years  since  Surid,  afterward  known  as  Chufa,  and 
later,  Cheops,  came  to  rule  over  Egypt ;  that  he  was 
a  despicable  monarch  and  a  great  oppressor  of  the 
people,  making  them  labor  for  him,  to  the  number  of 
one  hundred  thousand,  for  sixty  years  in  the  con- 
struction of  the  three  great  pyramids ;  and  when  the 
work  was  completed  he  issued  this  proclamation : 

"  I,  Surid  the  King,  have  built  these  pyramids  and  have 
finished  them  in  sixty-one  years.  Let  him  who  comes  after  me, 
and  imagines  himself  a  king,  attempt  to  destroy  them  in  six 
hundred.  It  is  easier  to  destroy  than  to  build.  I  clothed  them 
with  silk,  let  him  try  to  cover  them  with  mats." 

It  has  been  said  the  pyramids  are  the  riddle  of  the 
ages.  Who  built  them,  and  for  what  purpose,  are 
questions  that  may  have  been  asked  by  Abraham, 
who  doubtless  gazed  upon  them  in  all  their  glory. 

The  first  part  of  the  riddle  will  never  be  answered. 
The  second  was  answered  a  thousand  years  since, 
when  it  was  discovered  that  some  time  in  the  past  a 
poor,  selfishly  human  soul  had  hurled  defiance  at 
Time  and  attempted  to  throttle  its  shrouding  of  his 


OBLIVION  245 

earthly  existence  in  the  folds  of  oblivion.  But  Time 
was  victor  and  robbed  him  of  the  very  marrow  of  his 
conceit,  using  the  great  mausoleum  to  serve  as  a 
mile  post  in  its  trail. 

To-day,  Cheops,  Chufa  and  Surid  are  but  imagin- 
ative echoes  lingering  in  the  corridors  of  time,  while 
the  mightiest  work  of  man  has  proved  but  a  pinnacle 
for  Oblivion,  where  she  sits,  enfolding  in  her  gar- 
ments the  mystery  of  his  dead  past. 

The  builders  of  the  pyramids  made  a  heroic  strug- 
gle. Will  our  era,  in  the  cycle  of  history,  reveal 
one  of  equal  courage?  one  who  will  set  up  a  second 
mile-post  in  the  trail  of  time? 

To  comprehend  something  of  the  term  "  Oblivion," 
consider  a  human  being — the  combination  of  inert 
substances  made  into  form,  evolving  heat,  develop- 
ing power  of  movement,  possessing  psychic  qualities, 
queer  beyond  conception.  Then  conceive  of  the  im- 
portance of  that  human  being,  if  looked  at  with  its 
own  eyes  in  the  head  of  another.  Bear  in  mind,  it 
is  improbable  if  any  two  human  beings  were  ever 
cast  in  the  same  mould;  if  any  two  minds  ever  re- 
corded the  same  impression ;  if  any  two  pathways, 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  have  ever  coincided. 
Is  it  then  not  true  that  every  human  being  is  a 
world  within  himself?  And  it  is  three  hundred  bil- 
lions of  these  separate  and  distinct  creations  that 
Oblivion  has  absorbed,  nor  is  her  hunger  satisfied. 
Some  day  we  will  have  served  our  purpose  in  having 
aided  toward  the  appeasing  of  her  craving.  Our 
material  self  will  have  been  metamorphosed  into 


246  TAMAM 

those  inert  substances  of  which  we  are  constructed, 
and  the  fact  of  our  having  existed  will  have  vanished. 

Contrasted  against  Oblivion,  death  is  the  restful 
sleep  in  life  from  which  there  will  be  a  happy  awaken- 
ing. That  we  will  die  is  a  natural  consequence  of 
our  having  lived.  We  are  born  with  the  stipulation, 
the  expectation,  the  right  to  have  death  come  to  our 
relief.  We  are  but  temporal  and  shall  die ;  but  must 
we  be  forgotten? 

Earthly  existence  is  primarily  the  birth  of  that 
life  we  live  after  death;  an  opportunity  for  us  to  fix 
ourselves  in  the  memory  of  others  that  we  may  live 
again.  So  long  as  we  are  remembered,  we  live;  we 
could  be  called  Thanatosians :  they  who  live  in  death. 
The  life  of  the  Thanatosian  may  be  fleeting,  or 
more  than  temporal,  possibly  perpetual  within  the 
sense  of  human  comprehension.  The  Thanatosian, 
being  possessed  with  life,  becomes  subject  to  death. 
His  existence  is  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  his  crea- 
tor. We  who  create  him  must  maintain  him.  His 
death  is  his  passing  into  oblivion  to  join  the  three 
hundred  billion. 

Of  the  great  world  of  oblivion  we  know  nothing; 
but  of  Thanatosia  we  are  qualified  to  speak.  That 
land,  with  its  galaxy  of  characters  obtained  through 
the  gruelling  process  of  selection  employed  by  time 
and  its  ally,  death,  constitutes,  in  fact,  the  only 
world  with  which  we  are  familiar.  And  a  strange 
galaxy  it  is :  patriarchs  who  have  come  down  to  us 
through  ages  until  their  lives  appear  more  symboli- 
cal than  real,  illustrious  beyond  our  conceiving  that 


OBLIVION  247 

they  ever  lived  in  human  bodies  ;  steadily  illuminating 
that  world,  after  others  who  have  flashed  with 
meteoric  incandescence  across  the  heavens,  faded  to 
the  modest  light  of  a  glow-worm.  These,  and  they 
who  left  our  own  arms,  robed  in  our  promise  of  per- 
petual remembrance,  make  up  the  concourse. 

Under  strange  conditions,  strange  wherein  every 
wrong  has  been  righted;  where  the  past  and  the 
future  is  the  present ;  where  time  has  no  flight,  there 
dwells  this  heterogeneous  body  of  Thanatosians. 
Among  them  are  little  children  who  never  grow  up, 
but  live  in  the  wonderful  child-world  through  which 
we  have  passed.  There  are  youths  in  the  freshness 
of  life,  full  of  flowers  and  the  promise  of  fruiting, 
though  never  dropping  a  petal  of  their  bloom. 
There  are  maidens  in  the  rose-bud  stage  of  life,  with 
cheeks  immune  to  atrophia.  There  is  the  strength 
of  maturity,  remaining  at  the  flood-tide  of  life, 
static  in  equilibrium.  There  is  the  age  of  Wisdom, 
the  pinnacle  of  life,  with  its  soft  diffusion  of  retro- 
spective light  that  is  not  becoming  dimmer.  And 
finally,  those  who  have  passed  through  all  that  life 
afforded;  whose  sun  has  set  and  left  them  resting  in 
the  peaceful  twilight  before  a  night  that  never  comes. 
These  compose  the  heterogeneous  body  that  inhabit 
Thanatosia,  the  immutable  land.  And  there  our 
loved  ones  dwell,  and  exercise  an  influence  over  our 
lives  so  long  as  they  live  in  our  memory. 

It  is  manifestly  a  human  impossibility  to  retain 
for  any  length  of  time  true  mental  pictures  even  of 
those  who  were  nearest  and  dearest  to  us.  After  a 


248  TAMAM 

while  they  become  symbolical:  beautiful  visions  that 
unconsciously  guide  us :  a  light  that  brightens  as 
time  increases  the  focal  distance  of  the  picture. 
They  are  disseminated  into  an  influence  that  sur- 
rounds us  until  we  scarce  believe  they  could  have 
been  on  earth,  but  were  the  teachings  of  some  in- 
spiration. 

Is  it  bold  to  suggest  that  some  of  the  creations  in 
fiction  may  have  reached  the  lofty  height  of  living 
embodiment  until  they  too  are  disseminated  into  an 
influence?  If  they  are  given  life,  death  must  await 
them.  Then  must  they  pass  into  oblivion?  Can 
there  not  be  one  grand  assemblage,  comprising  the 
great  creations  of  man,  living  in  our  memory  just 
as  do  they  that  were  of  flesh  and  blood? 


In  Thanatosia  many  are  the  days  that  have  been 
spent  in  the  exchange  of  reminiscences  between  Cap- 
tian  Shelton  and  the  courtly  old  Major,  who  came 
to  him  from  out  of  oblivion.  Each  is  ever  a  ready 
listener  to  the  other,  each  knowing  the  other  knew 
he  exaggerated  every  time  the  story  was  told,  but 
neither  caring.  In  how  many  daring  acts  they  may 
have  participated  with  imaginary  Indians ;  how 
many  hair-breadth  escapes  against  fearful  odds ; 
how  miraculous  were  the  conditions  that  saved  their 
scalp-locks  from  dangling  at  the  belts  of  some 
treacherous  red-skin,  they  only  know,  and  care  to 
tell  no  other.  For  who  could  prove  so  responsive  a 
listener,  so  capable  of  giving  those  sympathetic  nods 


OBLIVION  249 

of  approval,  while  the  narrator  glowed  in  the  excite- 
ment of  his  story,  as  they,  each  the  one  for  the 
other? 

And  long  since,  with  what  feeling  has  the  fearless 
Major  Corbin  explained  to  the  friendless  Jim,  who 
is  no  longer  friendless,  but  a  devoted  servant  of  the 
Major,  and  filled  with  pride  in  the  ancestry  of  his 
adopted  master — hearing  no  more  of  the  despised 
cognomen,  "  Guinea  nigger  " !  And  with  Jim  safely 
protected  against  the  piercing  of  innocent  jests,  the 
Major  continues  to  follow  his  blooded  fox-hounds, 
whose  noble  tails  have  not  again  curled  between  their 
legs,  but  stand  straight  out  in  the  excitement  of  the 
chase. 

The  Smallwood  sister  has  never  ceased  in  her  en- 
joyment of  the  joke  she  perpetrated  on  the  sleeping 
keeper  of  the  vigil  with  her  lifeless  body ;  while  the 
long,  lean,  lank,  freckle-faced  boy  continues  to  gloat 
in  the  notoriety  achieved  by  him  in  being  the  first 
among  that  great  audience  to  note  the  absurdity  in 
the  heroic  blast  of  the  king's  herald. 

The  forgiving  spirit  of  George  Washington 
Parke  Custis  has  arisen  from  his  forgotten  grave, 
and  marveled  at  the  number  of  strange  bed-fellows 
partaking  of  his  hospitality.  Upon  their  awaken- 
ing he  will  doubtless  ask  them  to  visit  his  mansion  in 
the  skies,  where  his  "  Doric "  columns  will  again 
make  shadows  in  the  moonlight  to  screen  those 
couples  who  steal  away  from  the  glare  of  innumer- 
able candelabra,  that  there  may  be  an  exchange  of 
whisperings,  and  who  knows  what  else!  With  the 


250  TAMAM 

"  Squire,"  these  stranger  sleepers  may  gather  in  his 
graveless  woodlands  to  view  the  merinos,  now  de- 
veloped until  their  coats  are  clouds  of  fleece  with  a 
lustre  of  pearl.  And  so  long  as  his  spirit  may  live 
in  our  memory  he  will  no  more  contract  those  in- 
firmities of  age  that  compelled  him  to  go  in  search 
of  companionship. 

And  of  the  new  master!  He  has  walked  with 
Washington.  They  have  talked  regarding  the  con- 
ditions that  created  a  contention  between  brothers, 
that  grew  to  the  seriousness  of  strangeness  between 
them,  that  led  to  the  fierceness  of  war,  that  made 
empty  sleeves  and  filled  breasts  with  anguish,  that 
made  fatherless  homes  and  homeless  mothers  and 
children,  that  laid  waste  the  fields  and  burdened  the 
nation  with  debt.  They  have  weighed  the  cause  of 
the  brothers  and  righted  the  wrong  of  each  with  the 
forgiveness  of  the  other. 

The  Lieutenant  guest  who  one  time  paced  the 
portico  in  silence  has  rectified  his  error  and  been 
absolved.  And  the  immortal  Prelude  is  heard  no 
more  at  the  grave,  but  the  intoning  of  its  supplica- 
tion, by  the  arborescent  choir,  is  for  those  in  the 
world  of  flesh  and  blood,  they  who  are  undergoing 
the  sentence  of  mortal  anguish  and  know  nothing  of 
the  ineffable  life  beyond  the  grave. 

The  sexton  must  have  given  up  his  former  voca- 
tion, for  the  flowers  no  longer  wither.  It  may  be 
he  is  kept  busy  by  the  encroachment  of  the  patriotic 
golden  rod,  or  the  blazoned  dandelion,  or  of  the 
stealthy  creeping  of  the  guileless  honey-suckle.  He 


OBLIVION  251 

is  certainly  neither  denied  admission  to  the  grounds 
nor  permitted  to  construct  geometrical  flower-beds. 

The  potter's  field  grave-digger,  too,  has  seen  his 
foundlings  romp  in  their  child  games,  and  they  have 
sympathized  with  him  in  Ihis  loneliness.  He  has 
heard  from  the  lips  of  the  same  tramp  he  buried 
that  one's  surprise  in  finding  his  own  grave  so  zeal- 
ously guarded  by  that  solitary  tombstone  with  its 
monomial  epitaph. 

For  of  such  are  the  ways  in  Thanatosia,  where 
mysteries  are  revealed  and  enigmas  become  trans- 
parent; where  the  instigating  motive  of  every  act 
committed  in  the  world  of  flesh  and  blood  has  been 
able  to  establish  its  justification;  where  the  promise 
of  absolution  we  should  look  for  in  death  is  fulfilled. 
We  know  so  trivial  a  part  of  the  nature  of  things  in 
real  life;  of  the  reason  for  throwing  about  us  con- 
ditions so  markedly  varied;  of  the  giving  to  us  of 
intellects  apparently  so  unjustly  distributed;  of  the 
clothing  of  two  souls,  one  in  the  well-moulded  body  of 
a  man,  the  other  in  the  shrunken  and  distorted  form 
of  a  dwarf.  We  know  so  little  of  these  things,  we 
are  compelled  to  resort  to  imagination. 

Of  life,  we  know  but  one  thing:  we  know  we 
live,  which  condition  necessitates  a  cause.  The 
cause  of  our  existence  can  only  be  attributed 
to  a  creator,  which  term,  whether  used  in  the 
abstract,  poetic  or  sacred  sense,  is  the  same. 
We  have  some,  though  little,  conception  of  the 
three  hundred  billions  that  have  gone  before  us. 
We  know  our  approximate  duration  in  this  life,  and 


252  TAMAM 

that  against  time  it  is  infinitesimal,  incalculable. 
We  are  entitled  to  the  belief  that  no  higher  form  of 
development  exists  than  ours.  Can  we  jumble  our 
great  ignorance  with  our  small  intelligence,  our 
lack  of  comprehension  with  our  knowledge  of  limita- 
tions, our  poetic  fancies  with  our  cold  facts,  and  de- 
duce from  this  a  logical  sequence  that  there  is,  or,  is 
not,  a  life  beyond  the  grave?  Our  abstract,  poetic  or 
sacred  creator  must  have  given  consideration  to  this 
question,  and  has  either  made  us,  like  May-flies,  born 
to  flutter  in  the  sunshine  of  a  single  day,  or  our 
earthly  life  is  an  inconceivably  small  interval  in  the 
cycle  of  existence. 

When  one  makes  the  startling  announcement,  he 
knows  there  is  eternal  life,  he  profligates  the  very 
intelligence  with  which  he  is  invested.  Should  the 
entire  world  unite  in  believing  there  is  life  beyond 
the  grave  it  would  no  more  establish  a  fact  than 
could  the  transmutation  of  metals  be  effected  by  the 
concentration  of  thought  as  the  agent. 

When  one  states  his  belief  in  a  future  life,  he 
has  emphatically  advanced  his  hope:  nothing  more. 
And  this  hope  of  the  future  has  ever  been  the  food 
of  the  present.  The  mind  of  man  is  adorned  with 
a  speculative  faculty,  and  since  he  can  neither  specu- 
late on  the  past  nor  the  present,  the  future  is  the 
only  thing  remaining.  The  birth  of  this  hope  in 
a  future  life  is  an  armament  against  the  throes  of 
anguish  to  which  our  mortal  existence  is  subject. 

When  we  train  the  little  child  to  kneel  and  pray 
in  his  innocence  of  our  own  ignorance,  we  do  so  in 


OBLIVION  253 

the  spirit  of  arming  him  against  the  day  when  he 
will  have  arrived  at  the  milestone  in  life  from  which 
the  figures  have  been  erased,  and  some  vandal  has 
inscribed  the  word  "  doubt." 

Prayer  is  the  sublime  of  conditions  attainable  by 
the  mind.  It  is  the  introspective  review  we  make  of 
our  secret  motives  as  they  file  by,  in  the  solemnity  of 
isolation;  for  judgment  at  the  hands  of  the  good 
instincts  that  lie  within  us.  It  is  primarily  a  con- 
fession :  the  recognition  of  our  inferiority :  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  ignorance :  the  confiding  of  hope. 
The  postures  .of  upturned  face,  bowed  head  or  kneel- 
ing are  admissions  of  helplessness,  and  serve  to 
augment  the  attitude  of  the  mind.  That  prayer  is 
helpful,  wholesome  and  natural,  is  the  testimony  of 
the  Christian  era.  So  we  should  teach  the  child  to 
pray :  to  kneel  and  pray ;  and  in  so  doing  we  instill 
into  his  life  the  value  of  communing  with  his  own 
conceptions.  And  all  of  this  will  be  to  him  the  slow 
unfolding  of  the  existence  of  a  mystery  hopelessly 
unfathomable. 

The  most  exalted  of  human  thought  is,  not  that 
we  shall  live  again,  but  that  they  whom  we  love  will 
continue  to  live  after  passing  from  our  midst.  The 
question  as  to  our  own  future  life  should  be  of  no 
concern  to  us :  it  has  to  do  with  others.  A  hero 
throws  himself  in  the  path  of  danger  to  accomplish 
the  rescue  of  some  one  imperiled.  He  gives  no 
thought  to  himself,  thinks  only  of  the  one  imperiled. 

If  it  were  desirable  to  formulate  a  universal  creed 
of  faith,  a  creed  coincident  with  the  loftiest  hope  in 


254  TAMAM 

the  human  breast,  it  would  be  our  belief  that  they, 
who  in  life  so  endeared  themselves  to  us,  will  have  be- 
come immortalized  and  continue  to  live  and  influence 
us  so  long  as  they  live  in  our  memory.  Their  per- 
petuity is  of  no  importance  whatsoever,  when  we  have 
forgotten  them. 

Our  right  to  existence  beyond  the  grave  may  then 
become  conditioned  absolutely  on  the  mercy  of  those 
we  leave  behind.  Then  what  a  realm  that  unknown 
land  becomes  and  what  a  power  it  makes  of  us !  To 
those  we  love  we  give  life  throughout  the  eternity  of 
human  conception;  while  with  a  spirit. of  vengeance 
we  hurl  others  into  the  yawning  abyss  of  oblivion. 

We  arrive  now  at  the  purpose  of  mortal  life;  the 
opportunity  to  win  for  ourselves  life  beyond  the 
grave,  and  enter  upon  the  real  purpose  of  our  crea- 
tion. And  how  appropriately  does  this  conform  to 
the  regulations  which  we,  as  the  body  politic,  have 
formulated,  when  we  refrain  from  inscribing  the 
name  of  a  living  person  on  our  roll  of  honor.  We 
infer  that  no  one  can  be  unquestionably  great  while 
yet  alive.  In  the  test  of  resilience  applied  to  a 
piece  of  steel  it  is  not  how  far  will  it  bend,  but  how 
truly  will  it  return  to  normal  after  flexion.  So  we 
prefer  to  await  the  completion  of  the  life-test  of  our 
illustrious  ones,  when  the  strain  of  flexion  may  be 
recorded.  As  in  the  steel,  so  in  life  the  condition 
of  molecular  disruption  cannot  be  determined  until 
the  strain  is  completely  removed.  Death  then  be- 
comes a  thing  to  live  for,  and  life  an  opportunity  to 
rehearse  for  the  great  drama. 


OBLIVION  255 

Things  that  are  universal  are  natural.  Things 
that  are  natural  are  for  our  good.  Death  is  uni- 
versal. The  assuming  by  it  of  such  varied  forms 
confronts  us  with  an  enigma  of  serious  moment.  We 
have  seen  the  passing  of  beautiful  lives,  while  their 
mortal  bodies  were  undergoing  muscular  contortions 
of  agonizing  horror ;  and  we  have  seen  the  life  of  a 
worthless  wretch  pass  with  the  smile  of  innocence 
playing  about  his  mouth.  We  do  not  know  why 
this  is.  If  on  earth  things  were  as  they  should  be, 
we  should  have  nothing  upon  which  to  speculate ; 
therefore,  nothing  for  which  to  live.  Among  the 
probabilities,  one  is  that,  physiologically,  in  all  its 
forms,  death  entails  no  personal  suffering,  being 
nothing  more  than  the  carrying  out  of  the  stipula- 
tion given  with  our  birth. 

The  three  words  most  expressive  in  the  dictionary 
of  human  thought  are,  life,  death,  and  forgotten. 
Of  the  two  first  we  can  give  no  definition.  Of  the 
third,  we  know  all.  It  means  everything.  And  the 
conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is,  live  to  die,  and  die 
to  live. 

The  attainment  of  Nirvana  is  a  conception  of 
Buddha,  defined  as  the  entering  of  the  soul  into  a 
condition  of  perfect  equilibrium.  Buddha's  concep- 
tion, however,  admitted  of  this  attainment  only  after 
death.  Is  there  no  human  possibility  of  Nirvana 
during  life?  Is  it  beyond  our  power  to  live  in  a 
state  of  equilibrium;  where  every  passion  is  counter- 
poised with  moral  courage;  where  every  selfish 
thought  is,  in  the  ultimate,  a  generous  motive; 


256  TAMAM 

where  every  ambition  is  appeased  with  an  earnest 
effort? 

Nirvana  in  life,  and,  in  death,  life  in  the  memory 
of  those  we  leave,  would  be  a  rounding  out  of  the 
most  elevated  thought  to  which  the  heart  can  aspire. 

Buddha  was  selfish.  So  is  every  one  who  chooses 
to  live  again  in  himself,  rather  than  in  the  memory 
of  those  whom  he  leaves  in  the  bondage  of  earthly 
life. 


It  was  in  the  strange  land  we  are  calling  Thana- 
tosia  where  gathered,  one  day,  the  most  remarkable 
assemblage  within  the  mind's  conception. 

There  were  old  people  beautified  by  the  halo  of 
time,  and  young  people  glowing  with  perpetual 
youth.  There  were  sages  hand  in  hand  with  the 
golden  curls  of  childhood's  wiseacres,  the  dogmas 
of  one  answered  in  the  nursery  lore  of  the  other. 

There  were  heroes  of  great  wars — wars  for  hu- 
manity's sake — whose  faces  beamed  as  they  watched 
platoons  of  small  boys  in  paper  cocked-hats,  under 
the  leadership  of  shrill-voiced  captains.  And  these 
shrill-voiced  captains  beamed,  in  turn,  on  still  smaller 
boys  who  commanded  squadrons  of  tin  soldiers. 

There  were  heavy-browed,  serious-minded  phi- 
losophers who  had  learned  to  smile,  and  light 
hearted,  frivolous  jokers  whose  faces  were  not  al- 
ways devoid  of  dignity,  but  were  able  to  command 
the  recognition  that,  with  them,  existence  was  not 
one  flippant  jest.  The  jokers  could  discuss  the 


OBLIVION  257 


philosophers'  creeds,  and  the  philosophers  took 
nizance  of  the  unquestionable  logic  in  the  punster's 
play  upon  words. 

There  were  classic  poets  and  doggerel  rhymsters 
vying  in  their  ability  to  quote,  each,  the  other's 
verse;  just  as  two  kindred  spirits  of  great  com- 
posers can  improvise  in  duo,  where  one  weaves  in 
a  theme  of  the  other's  composition,  while  that  one 
struggles  to  obtain  some  cadenza  effect,  after  which 
he  will  throw  his  contemporary  into  juxtaposition  by 
substituting  a  theme  of  his  opponent's  construction 
for  that  of  his  own. 

There  were  great  masters  of  painting,  grouped 
among  worshipful  students,  conceding  the  impor- 
tance of  these  same  students'  criticisms  ;  and  master 
artisans  who  saw  in  their  ambitious  apprentices  the 
embryo  of  future  rivals. 

And,  to  think  of  this  !  There  were  immortal 
authors  accompanied  by  the  equally  immortal  char- 
acters of  their  own  creation.  Some  of  the  charac- 
ters jibing  their  creators  for  having  made  them  so 
fearfully  absurd,  others  imploring  to  be  clothed  in 
less  dignity;  some  in  the  grotesque  garb  of  their 
creator's  construction,  absolutely  refusing  to  lay  it 
aside;  some  explaining  and  apologizing  to  their 
created  companions,  always  pointing  to  their  creator 
as  the  excuse.  Picture  Bunyan  and  Christian  com- 
ing to  this  gathering!  And  against  this  contrast 
of  author  and  character  was  the  character  who  had 
overshadowed  his  creator;  and  lastly,  that  creation 
so  great  as  to  have  become  vague  in  the  matter  of 


258  TAMAM 

his  origin,  until  we  know  not  if  he  ever  had  the  breath 
of  life,  or  was  a  sublime  conception  of  man. 

There  were  children  nudging  among  the  char- 
acters they  had  learned  to  love  in  the  nursery  rhymes, 
like  the  "  Soap-fat  Man  "  and  the  "  Dish  that  ran 
away  with  the  Spoon."  Little  girls  carried  sawdust 
dolls  that  wriggled  and  squealed,  and  little  boys  rode 
on  hobby  horses  that  were  supple  and  glossy,  and 
pranced  and  shied  and  pricked  their  ears,  always 
fearfully  wild  though  thoroughly  under  control  of 
their  excellent  riders. 

There  were  orphan  children  and  childless  parents, 
each  so  filling  the  void  in  the  other  that  no  little  feet 
wandered  aimlessly  about  the  strange  land,  and  no 
mother  languished  in  the  thought  of  her  children 
left  on  earth. 

There  were  entire  families  happily  reunited,  and 
these  were  aiding  separated  ones  to  bear  in  patience 
until  the  harmony  of  their  soul  music  would  be 
completed. 

These,  and  all  of  those  any  of  us  know  and  love 
and  keep  alive  in  our  memory,  were  gathered  to  cele- 
brate the  meeting  of  a  father  who  had  never  seen  his 
'  own  child,  with  a  daughter  who  had  never  known 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "  father."  And  when  the 
posthumous  daughter  ceased  to  be  fatherless,  and 
the  father  was  no  longer  childless,  all  the  people  of 
that  strange  land  were  weeping  tears  of  joy.  What 
a  feast  there  must  have  been  as  these  two  souls  let 
their  long  pent-up  love  pour  out !  When  he  felt  her 
safely  in  his  arms,  after  the  soft  shadows  had  closed 


OBLIVION  259 

around  her  earthly  life,  and  she  had  looked  into  the 
face  she  had  waited  so  long  to  see,  there  must  have 
been  those  same  golden  moments  of  silence  we  have 
on  earth,  when  love  has  no  words  but  stands  trans- 
fixed in  speechless  adoration. 

What  a  story  he  had  to  tell  her!  How,  when  the 
bullet  had  pierced  his  breast  and  he  realized  there 
was  to  be  no  recoil  from  the  shock,  and  while  await- 
ing the  passing  of  the  few  fleeting  moments  that 
remained  of  his  mortal  life,  how  his  thoughts  had 
centered  on  the  unborn  child,  and  his  prayer  for  its 
safe  delivery,  that  the  mother  and  the  child  might 
go  through  life  each  a  bearer  of  the  other's  burdens, 
a  refuge  for  the  other's  sorrow,  a  fountain  of  the 
other's  joy. 

And  he  could  have  told  her  how,  through  the  gates 
of  heaven,  he  had  seen  the  widowed  mate  of  his  life 
go  alone  down  into  the  valley  of  shadows  and  pass 
between  the  lurking  places  of  death,  and  when, 
through  fear  for  her  safety,  he  turned  away  until 
the  voices  of  watching  angels  had  fallen  on  his 
ear,  shouting  in  one  grand  chorus,  "  A  child  is 
born !  " 

And  he  must  have  told  her  how  the  mother  had 
brought  the  babe  to  the  grave  of  his  mortal  body, 
and  there,  beneath  the  shade  of  the  aspens,  bedecked 
the  little  one  in  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  fresh 
flowers,  that  as  the  little  Princess  of  Fragrance  she 
could  be  lifted  up  by  the  winds,  that  he  might  have 
a  glimpse  of  their  child. 

He  may  have  told  her  of  the  lullabies  the  mother 


260  TAMAM 

sang,  telling  the  little  one  of  the  father  who  awaited 
them,  and  how  each  time,  when  the  angels  of  sleep 
had  stolen  her  away,  the  mother  would  search  the  face 
for  any  lines  of  expression  resembling  his. 

He  could  have  told  how  the  mother  concealed  her 
sorrow  from  the  child,  as  it  merged  from  babyhood 
into  the  age  of  curls  and  fluffles,  that  the  sky  of  the 
child's  life  should  not  be  overcast  with  the  mist  of 
tears. 

And  only  think  of  the  things  she  must  have  told 
him!  First,  of  the  mother  teaching  her  the  child's 
prayer,  "  Bless  father  and  mother,"  and  how  me- 
chanically she  said  it  until  father  became  a  common 
word  in  her  daily  vocabulary,  a  word  of  the  queer- 
est meaning,  sometimes  being  one  of  the  men  who 
roll  the  thunderbolts  and  flash  the  lightning;  and 
how  laughingly  she  must  have  told  him  that,  at 
other  times,  her  childish  conceit  made  him  a  drug- 
store man  who  sold  tears,  in  funny  little  bottles,  for 
people  to  put  in  their  eyes  to  make  them  glisten 
and  look  pretty. 

Then  she  would  have  told  him  of  the  dolls  with 
which  she  played,  they  too  having  only  a  mother; 
but  that  she  always  taught  them  to  pray,  "  Bless 
father,"  just  as  she  had  been  taught.  And  of  the  jolly 
tea-parties  had  at  his  grave,  where  the  dolls  had  such 
times  sipping  tea  out  of  "  butter-cups,"  while  they 
nursed  their  precious  pussy-willow  babies,  or  rocked 
them  in  their  burr  furniture  cradles,  which  the 
grandmothers  had  made,  in  addition  to  chairs,  sofas 
and  tables,  all  that  the  mother-dolls  might  play 


OBLIVION  261 

"  keep  house."  And  what  a  quiet,  motherly  time 
they  would  have,  each  mother  and  her  family  of 
dolls  living  at  some  grave  for  a  house,  until  a  group 
of  Indian  warrior  boys,  stained  into  grimacing 
demons  with  the  juice  of  the  pokeberry,  would  climb 
over  the  wall,  making  the  party  break  up  in  con- 
fusion as  the  mothers  caught  up  their  children  to 
flee  for  their  lives ;  and  finally,  after  amicable  rela- 
tions were  once  more  established,  how  the  stained- 
face  warriors  would  sit  around  his  grave,  because 
his  tombstone  had  a  sword  and  a  row  of  stars  on 
it ;  while  the  captive  mothers  would  bring  them 
sweetened  water  in  the  cups  from  their  dolls'  china 
closet. 

What  peals  of  laughter  there  must  have  been  as 
the  father  listened  to  the  story  of  the  happy  days 
of  her  life  when  his  grave  had  entered  into  their 
play,  and  himself  a  component  part  of  the  child- 
world  in  which  she  lived. 

With  what  sympathy  he  must  have  listened  to  her 
recital  of  the  difficulty  she  had  found,  in  mature 
life,  in  picturing  him  as  her  father ;  how  hard  it 
was  for  her  mind  to  grasp  any  conception  of  what 
his  love  would  be,  and  that  only  the  ceaseless  and 
silent  adoration  her  mother  had  for  his  memory 
served  to  help  her  grow  into  the  realization  that  his 
had  been  an  actual  existence,  and  not  always  a  dis- 
seminated influence. 

And  these  two!  How  they  must  have  united  in 
their  praise  of  the  mother  who  had  so  successfully 
fostered  in  an  unborn  child  the  growth  of  love  for 


TAMAM 

its  father,  since  the  grim  reaper  Death  had  har- 
vested this  father  even  before  the  embryonic  stage 
was  past ;  and  only  through  her  constant  dwelling 
in  the  thought  had  this  love  been  developed  in  the 
prenatal  life  of  the  child. 

And  if  we  care  to  believe  it,  all  of  this  happiness 
was  theirs,  and  the  joy  that  came  to  these  two  was 
worth  many  times  the  cost  of  all  her  suffering  in 
life.  Every  misconstruction,  every  disappoint- 
ment, and  even  the  birth  of  atrophia  in  her  face, 
had  been  compensated.  And  when  that  soldier  father 
fell  on  the  firing-line,  and  his  lifeless  body  had  im- 
peded the  onrush  of  his  fellow-comrades,  so  mad- 
dened in  the  fury  of  internecine  strife  they  scarce 
avoided  trampling  him;  and  as  the  numbness  of  his 
extremities  extended  toward  his  heart,  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  death's  nearness  sent  through  him  those  pros- 
trating shudders,  even  while  the  agony  of  dying 
thirst  seized  him,  with  never  a  hand  to  moisten  his 
lips,  though  his  glazed  eyes  still  caught  fleeting 
glimpses  of  the  fury  surrounding  him ;  and  the  swell- 
ing of  his  tongue  until  the  air  passages  to  his  lungs 
had  been  stopped — all  of  his  suffering  had  been 
reconciled  through  a  single  glance  into  the  face  of 
her  whom  he  had  at  last  folded  in  his  arms  as  his 
child. 

Could  each  one  of  them  again  start  from  the 
cradle,  is  there  one  event  in  the  lives  of  either  they 
would  have  erased?  Would  they  for  any  reason 
disturb  the  sequence  of  conditions  that  had  been 
thrown  around  them?  Would  they  avoid  the  paths 


they  had  taken,  and  risk  themselves  over  the  pit- 
falls in  any  other?  Would  they  question  the  reason 
for  the  existence  of  any  link  in  the  chain  that  had 
been  forged  from  their  lives?  Had  not  every  mo- 
ment of  suffering  lent  to  the  joy  that  was  now 
theirs?  Would  they  care  to  risk  curtailing  it  in 
the  slightest? 

Can  we  not  interpret  something  from  the  suffering 
with  which  life  is  entailed?  Is  it  not  idle  to  presume 
that  we  are  created  after  the  manner  of  individual 
preferences ;  and  that  the  pleasures  of  the  world  are 
to  be  borne  by  a  select  few  while  the  vast  majority 
shoulder  its  burdens?  Will  the  few  nondescript 
inanities  who  encumber  the  earth  inherit  what  we  call 
"  the  kingdom  of  God?  "  We  do  not  know,  but  we 
can  believe  whatsoever  we  wish.  In  the  strange  land 
where  live  those  whom  we,  their  earthly  creators, 
keep  in  life,  we  can  adjust  all  differences  within  the 
scope  of  human  perception ;  and  as  for  the  rest,  what 
matters  it?  There  is  the  name  Surid  living  with  us, 
but  it  means  nothing. 

For  those  we  love  we  can  believe  in  conceptions 
beauteous  to  the  very  depths  of  our  soul's  conceits ; 
and  it  is  these  conceptions  that  react  in  our  lives 
and  make  us  what  we  are.  What  better  tool  could 
be  given  us  for  the  carving  of  our  own  destiny? 


When  the  kingfisher  screamed  his  note  of  warn- 
ing, was  the  character  we  had  known  to  pass  into 
oblivion?  When  the  finny  scavengers  of  the  rill 


264  TAMAM 

that  had  darted  away  as,  with  shattered  brain,  he 
pitched  into  their  midst,  and  had  returned  to  nibble 
at  his  flesh  and,  like  mourners,  follow  his  body  in  its 
drifting  that  they  might  drink  of  the  putrid  water 
in  its  trail,  was  he  to  become  no  longer  deserving 
of  our  thought?  In  this  act  of  suicide  had  he  dis- 
played unpardonable  cowardice?  Did  it  mean  that, 
after  all,  he  was  a  weak-kneed,  faint-hearted  crea- 
tion, unworthy  of  the  designation  "  man  "  ? 

Self-destruction  is  not,  necessarily,  the  result  of 
an  unbalanced  mind.  It  is  not  given  to  us  to  know 
the  nature  of  such  dire  extremity  in  which  one  finds 
one's  self,  when  resort  is  had  to  this  means  of  relief. 
Were  we  acquainted  with  this  we  too  would  be  sui- 
cides. Suicide  is  death  while  life  yet  lingers  in  the 
body.  From  the  moment  of  determination  to  de- 
stroy one's  self  there  must  be  the  consciousness  of 
suffering  the  spirit  to  remain  in  a  domicile  obnoxious 
to  it;  or  the  reverse,  the  consciousness  of  a  broken 
heart  mortifying  in  a  serviceable  body.  The  pre- 
dominating instinct  is  to  sever  all  relation  between 
the  abstruse  thing  called  spirit,  and  the  concrete 
body.  As  soon  as  this  dwelling  together  becomes 
inharmonious,  it  must  develop  every  agony  to  which 
mortal  existence  is  heir. 

As  to  the  train  of  conditions  that  lets  one  de- 
termine on  self-destruction,  it  must  be  inevitable, 
else  it  would  not  exist.  It  could  be  no  matter  of 
choice.  But,  confronted  with  a  state  of  persona 
non  grata  to  one's  own  self,  there  is  no  alternative. 
Hence,  self-destruction  being  a  relief,  any  desire  for 


OBLIVION  265 

relief  is  natural,  and  whatever  is  natural  is  for  our 
good. 

Then  have  we  the  moral  right  to  yield  to  what  is 
nothing  more  than  a  selfish  motive?  No  man  ever 
took  his  life  that  it  might  advance  the  happiness  of 
another.  Any  provision  that  may  have  been  in- 
tended to  ameliorate  the  suffering  of  those  left  be- 
hind is  made  in  the  incipient  stages  of  unrest,  and 
not  after  the  victim  of  self-hatred  has  arrived  at 
his  determination.  When  this  crisis  is  reached,  he 
is  virtually  a  sufferer  of  whatever  death  means  in 
all  of  its  interpretations. 

Anything  so  absorbing  of  thought  as  is  death 
means  that  during  the  final  moments  a  state  of 
supreme  isolation  is  probably  reached.  A  traveler 
waiting  at  the  gateway  of  an  unknown  future,  into 
which  he  is  about  to  journey  and  from  whence  he 
will  never  return,  would  be  so  absorbed  that  recog- 
nition of  those  he  is  leaving  would  be  a  triviality. 

Death  is  neither  less  nor  more  to  the  mortal  who, 
in  life,  has  sunk  into  oblivion,  than  to  the  one  who 
is  stricken  while  on  the  pinnacle  of  success.  If  all 
men  are  born  equal,  it  is  consistent  to  assume  they 
die  equal. 

There  is  no  gainsaying  it  requires  courage  to  com- 
mit the  act  of  suicide.  It  may  be  a  courage  sur- 
passing any  we  know.  Among  our  instincts  one  is 
to  hold  our  own  life  at  all  hazards.  Should  this  be 
followed,  there  would  be  no  heroes,  no  martyrs,  no 
suicides.  The  hero  yields  his  life  at  some  hazard, 
the  martyr  at  every  hazard,  and  the  suicide  at  none. 


266  TAMAM 

The  hero's  life  goes  for  a  risk,  the  martyr's  for  a 
cause,  and  the  suicide's,  for  naught.  It  must  require 
courage  to  give  something  for  nothing. 

To  be  the  premeditated  agent  of  self-destruction 
is  reserving  to  one's  self  the  extreme  in  service,  man 
has  ever  requested  of  his  truest  friend.  Socrates  took 
the  cup  of  hemlock  from  the  hand  of  the  man  who 
loved  him  most.  But  Socrates  reserved  for  himself 
the  act  of  placing  the  cup  to  his  own  lips,  that  with 
him  the  words  "  death  "  and  "  courage  "  should  be 
synonymous. 

This  granting  condemned  persons  the  privilege  of 
administering  their  own  death  cup  was  a  test  ap- 
plied with  the  purpose  of  humiliating  the  one  who 
lacked  in  courage  to  accept  the  offer.  A  similar  dis- 
tinction is  found  in  the  unwritten  law  prevailing  in 
certain  nations  wherein  a  defeated  commander  is 
expected  to  terminate  his  existence  with  his  own 
hand;  that  through  such  an  act  he  can  dispel  any 
possible  assumption  as  to  a  lack  of  courage.  Such  a 
death,  supposedly,  re-establishes  him  in  the  eyes  of 
his  followers.  On  one  of  less  courage  the  death 
penalty  is  frequently  inflicted. 

If  life  be  shorn  of  its  poetry,  there  remains  the 
unvarnished  fact  that  he  who  possesses  it  can  in  no 
way  impart  it  in  the  least  degree  to  another.  We 
must  recognize  in  it  an  asset  of  such  decided  indi- 
viduality that  it  cannot  be  entailed.  And  should 
an  asset  of  such  a  restricted  ownership  prove  value- 
less to  its  possessor,  he  could  believe  himself  justified 
in  the  disposing  of  it.  A  life  that  is  worth  nothing 


OBLIVION  267 

to  its  holder  can  be  worth  little  more  to  any  one 
else.  Far  better  that  it  be  not  a  thorn  festering  in 
the  flesh. 

When  the  kingfisher  screamed,  it  was  a  strong 
heart  that  had  ceased  in  its  pulsation.  No  other  could 
have  turned  from  a  previous  determination  to  give 
full  play  to  life  in  all  its  freedom  and  fancies.  The 
life  was  his  to  have  and  to  hold.  He  had  put  its 
qualities  to  the  test.  The  train  of  conditions  that 
led  to  his  state  of  mind  had  not  been  his  choice.  Life 
was  too  serious  to  make  of  it  a  toy.  He  would 
yield  it  up  to  the  all-consuming  thirst  of  Oblivion. 
The  body,  the  world,  was  out  of  harmony  with  his 
spirit,  his  existence. 

Had  he  the  courage  to  commune  with  his  own 
gloomy  thoughts  in  the  shaded  seclusion  of  the  rill 
where  there  was  no  hand  to  stay  his  action?  When 
he  looked  at  the  levity  in  Nature's  face,  her  laugh- 
ing waters,  her  dancing  sunbeams,  and  then  turned 
his  face  toward  the  yawning  abyss  Oblivion,  did  it 
require  courage  for  him  to  choose?  When  he  looked 
into  the  clear  and  placid  water  of  the  rill,  filled  with 
light  and  the  shimmer  of  life,  did  it  require  courage 
to  ruffle  its  surface  and  fill  it  with  the  murkiness  of 
blood  and  the  shudder  of  death?  When  he  looked 
up  into  the  blue  of  the  sky  with  its  maze  of  shell- 
tinted  fleeces,  parading  in  pomp  and  splendor  like 
a  grand  spectacular  flotilla  in  an  ambient  sea,  and 
then  looked  down  into  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol,  did  it 
require  courage  to  send  the  verdigris-stained  bullet 
into  his  brain? 


268  TAMAM 

Was  the  termination  of  his  life  a  fitting  climax  to 
the  succession  of  failures  that  had  composed  it? 
Or  was  it  the  crucial  test  in  a  life  that  had  been 
the  very  portrayal  of  courage?  Was  his  courage 
and  success?  or  was  it  cowardice  and  failure? 

What  may  be  the  meaning  of  these  words  cour- 
age and  success?  We  know  courage  to  be  an  attri- 
bute of  the  mind.  It  is  the  balance-wheel,  so  to 
speak,  of  our  nervous  system.  It  is  the  faculty 
sufficiently  strong  to  retain  its  presence  of  mind, 
when  the  rest  of  our  senses  are  in  a  state  of  panic. 
Courage  holds  the  martyr  at  the  stake.  It  is  that 
force  which  enables  one  to  carry  to  a  successful  con- 
clusion, irrespective  of  consequences,  whatever  may 
constitute  his  determination. 

When  he  had  determined  upon  self-destruction  the 
one  indispensable  requisite  for  his  putting  it  into  ef- 
fect was  courage. 

Then  what  is  success?  The  word  has  so  strong 
a  ring  of  mercenary  timbre  that  we  see  nothing  but 
a  countenance  wrinkled  into  lines  after  the  form  of 
a  dollar-mark.  He  who  gives  little  for  much  is 
successful ;  but  not  he  who  gives  much  for  little,  as 
the  world  views  this  word.  Ethically,  a  success  ex- 
ists where  one  has  not  failed  in  an  undertaking. 

If  his  undertaking  had  been  to  follow  the  dic- 
tates of  an  unbiassed  conscience ;  to  dwarf  the  in- 
stinct of  selfishness  by  the  giving  unto  others  more 
than  he  would  have  them  give  unto  him ;  to  live  in  a 
spirit  of  humanity  for  humanity's  sake,  and  love 
his  neighbor  as  he  loved  himself,  then  the  king- 


OBLIVION  269 

fisher's  scream  marked  the  close  of  a  successful  life, 
full  of  courage  to  the  last. 

It  is  not  what  a  man  was,  so  much  as  what  in 
our  memory  he  is.  If  a  life  has  been  so  silhouetted 
against  our  sky-line  that  it  leaves  an  impression  of 
countenance  palatable  to  our  memory  and  disposes 
in  us  the  adaptation  to  our  lives  of  any  trait  of 
character,  ennobling,  or  even  the  love  of  one;  if 
it  suggests  to  us  a  higher  appreciation  of  the  deli- 
cate tints  of  personality  with  which  the  sombre  color- 
ing of  life  may  be  illumined;  if  it  leaves  with  us  the 
reverberations  from  a  single  chord  played  in  the 
symphony  of  life,  such  that  it  behooves  us  sound  our 
own  souls  as  to  the  depth  of  melody  there ;  if,  in 
short,  it  stimulates  us  to  one  act  of  self-betterment, 
that  life  has  been  a  success. 

If  the  three  hundred  billions  that  have  gone  be- 
fore had  each  bequeathed  one  elevating  thought  to 
posterity,  we  would  be  fairly  scintillating  in  our 
wealth  of  gems. 

Few  of  us  could  be  cajoled  into  the  belief  that 
our  imperfections  do  not  constitute  a  majority.  It 
is  charity  that  magnifies  our  small  minority  of  good 
points.  They  who  love  us  forget  our  weaknesses. 

Can  we  forget  the  petulances,  the  idiosyncrasies, 
the  impassioned  stoicisms  distributed  through  the 
life  that  terminated  on  the  banks  of  the  rill?  Can 
we  blot  from  memory  the  picture  we  saw  through 
the  vista  made  in  the  foliage? — we  should  not  have 
followed  him.  Can  we  dismiss  the  thought  of  blood 
gushing  out,  and  water  gushing  in,  at  the  mouth, 


270  TAMAM 

and  look  for  the  smile  in  his  silhouette?  Cannot  the 
weakness  of  human  judgment  have  made  him  a 
martyr  to  his  cause  of  pertinacity  and  unswerving 
adherence  to  conviction?  If  so,  can  the  creator 
of  these  weaknesses  ask  for  him  a  lowly  place  among 
those  who  live  in  the  memory  of  all  who  accept  the 
tenet  of  faith  in  life,  "  To  err  is  human ;  to  forgive, 
divine,"  that  he  may  ascend  to  the  realm  where  all 
wrongs  are  righted? 


When  he  and  she  met,  let  us  believe  there  was  no 
gathering  of  the  people  to  witness,  no  idle  curiosity- 
seekers  standing  round  the  corners  that,  unnoticed, 
they  may  watch  these  two  come  together.  We  would 
have  the  time  when  every  one  else  was  preoccupied, 
the  place  where  no  one  else  was  present.  We  can 
dwell  in  thought,  for  a  moment,  on  the  flush  of 
startled  surprise  that  would  be  in  her  face;  on 
the  light  in  her  eyes,  dissolving  from  a  ray  of 
searching  quality  to  a  gleam  of  softened  warmth. 
We  can  see  his  sudden  stop,  poised  in  thought,  and 
the  lowering  of  his  eyes  as  his  glance  of  recognition 
was  confirmed.  She  too  has  stopped.  The  pause  is 
short  but  it  means  worlds.  The  sound  of  a  timidly 
advanced  footstep  falls  on  his  ear,  he  lifts  his  eyes 
to  meet  hers,  and  the  nebulous  veil  of  the  heavens 

falls  around  them. 

*  #  *  *  * 

There  are  graveyards  in  Thanatosia,  though  they 
serve  but  one  of  the  purposes  for  which  they  are 


OBLIVION  271 

used  on  earth:  their  higher  purposes.  And  equally 
proper,  it  is,  that  these  graveyards  have  ghosts. 
The  ghost  is  as  indispensable  to  the  graveyard  as 
to  the  play  of  Hamlet. 

Thanatosia  is  no  fictitious  place  of  alabaster  piles 
and  glittering  streets,  crowded  with  people  wearing 
shrouds  and  sanctimonious  expressions.  It  is  a 
simple  world  of  shaded  nooks  and  sunlit  expanses, 
verdant  slopes  and  flowering  glens,  fragrant  breezes 
and  restful  stillness.  We  may,  if  we  choose,  dot  the 
landscape  with  gatherings  of  intermingling  spirits, 
and  have  always  just  what  we  know  and  like,  the  en- 
vironment we  would  throw  around  our  dear  ones,  that 
they  would  not  be  living  in  strange  conditions,  for- 
eign to  our  conception. 

Explanations  are  not  in  order  in  Thanatosia ; 
they  go  without  saying.  When  they  met,  these  two 
had  nothing  to  rehearse.  Everything  was  as  it 
should  have  been,  and  once  more  they  are  sitting  in 
the  shade  of  the  trembling  aspens  at  "  Forest  Re- 
treat." But  the  aspens  are  now  trembling  with  the 
responsibility  of  their  sentinel  duties — they  watch 
over  the  living  now,  no  more  over  the  dead.  The 
pines  moan,  but  theirs  is  a  warning  of  the  shudder 
they  will  send  through  the  soul  that  would  intrude 
upon  the  occupancy  of  these  two ;  and  the  screening 
hedge  of  lilacs  is  so  dense  with  bloom  that  no  dis- 
turbing influence  can  penetrate.  The  tombstones 
are  all  there,  though  why  no  one  knows,  unless  for 
the  sake  of  the  children  who  in  life  had  played  about. 
There  is  the  mound,  but  its  existence  is  explained  in 


272  TAMAM 

a  way  similar  to  that  of  the  tombstones.  And  the 
myrtle  with  its  tiny  blue  flower,  and  the  modest 
violet,  all  for  a  purpose,  though  it  is  hardly  probable 
they  were  made  into  wreaths.  We  make  wreaths 
when  it  is  necessary  to  keep  our  hands  occupied, 
that  it  may  hold  our  thought  from  wandering. 
These  two  needed  no  occupation.  Not  even  was  it 
necessary  for  her  to  pick  at  the  hem  of  her  hand- 
kerchief, or  for  him  to  finger  the  little  blue  flowers 
that  grew  about  them.  She  probably  rested  against 
the  mound,  and  he  may  have  partially  reclined  before 
her,  his  head  resting  in  his  hand,  his  forearm,  with 
elbow  on  the  ground,  forming  a  support. 

There  are  many  things  he  could  say,  but  it  is  prob- 
able the  spoken  words  were  few.  Speech  is  only  the 
froth  of  thought,  the  dross  of  idea,  and  a  wretchedly 
poor  carrier  for  the  conveyance  of  feeling.  Making 
love  with  words,  like  building  castles  of  air,  is  using 
material  that  is  too  cheap.  The  heart  has  far  more 
use  for  the  eyes  than  the  mouth.  It  thickens  the 
tongue  against  speech,  while  sending  a  tremor  of 
feverish  tinge  to  the  lips  that  tell  much.  It  pumps 
the  blood  from  the  extremities,  to  send  it  coursing 
in  scarlet  waves  of  meaning  across  the  cheek,  reveal- 
ing its  impulses  in  no  unmistakable  way.  When  love 
is  in  its  glow,  it  knows  but  the  one  word:  silence. 

As  he  must  have  looked  up  under  the  partly  lowered 
lashes  of  her  eyes,  when  she  would  have  lifted  them 
for  the  moment  that  her  glance  might  meet  his,  she 
would  know  he  had  said,  "  You  have  my  heart,  will 
you  give  me  yours?  "  And  when  a  series  of  scarlet 


OBLIVION  273 

expressions  played  over  her  cheek,  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled with  embarrassment  as  a  quickened  breath  es- 
caped between  them,  he  would  know  she  had  said. 
"  You  have  it  now."  And  love  would  laugh  at 
words. 

She   probably    was    the   first    to    speak  —  being    a 


"  There  is  but  one  thing  I  would  have  you  ex- 
plain to  me." 

He  would  immediately  display  intense  interest  and 
summon  everything  in  his  memory  to  be  in  readiness. 

Did  there  rush  into  his  mind  the  scene  of  their 
parting  on  earth,  when  she  had  refused  him  that 
single  sentence  in  explanation,  the  one  clause  which 
Destiny  held  in  her  rapacious  grasp  that  would  have 
meant  so  much  to  both  ?  Or  was  it  the  thought  that 
he  would  be  able  to  tell  her  of  the  little  book  he  too 
had  carried,  and  whose  pages  contained  the  outpour- 
ing of  his  soul,  his  frantic  effort  to  commune  with 
her  in  her  heavenly  abode;  and  how,  when  this  little 
book  had  disappeared  in  a  way  so  mysterious  as  to 
have  remained  unsolved  by  him,  he  had  prayed  it 
might  never  be  seen  by  human  eyes,  though  when  he 
had  learned  of  his  mistake  he  would  have  had  her  see 
it,  when  his  eyes  had  been  closed  in  eternal  sleep. 

And  as  she  looked  into  his  all-serious  face,  she 
would  have  felt  the  sense  of  feminine  timidity  come 
over  her,  and  perhaps  qualify  her  question  by  a 
preliminary  pleading  that  he  would  not  laugh  but 
answer,  that  it  might  put  a  stop  to  the  curiosity 
that  had  so  long  burned  in  her.  Of  all  the  mysteries 


274  TAMAM 

that  had  wrapped  their  impenetrable  folds  around 
her  life,  there  was  but  one  that  had  continued  un- 
solved, and  this  she  would  now  ask.  And  while  she 
was  asking  the  question  she  would  have  lowered  her 
eyes  and  fingered  with  the  hem  of  her  handkerchief, 
and  a  smile  would  have  drawn  her  mouth  and  chin 
into  such  dimples  as  never  before  so  tortured  the 
thirst  of  man,  and  the  graveyard  would  not  have 
been  filled  with  the  melody  of  her  voice,  but  there 
would  emanate  a  series  of  hesitating  words,  so  hushed 
and  inarticulately  delivered  that  the  tombstones 
would  have  held  their  breath  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  once  asked  me  why  was  a  tree  with  a  broken 
limb  like  a  lame  duck,  and  I  made  you  promise  not 
to  tell  me  the  answer  until  I  '  gave  up.'  I  now  '  give 
up.'  " 

The  aspens  must  have  shaken  and  the  pines  must 
have  groaned,  the  tombstones  must  have  fallen  down 
and  rolled  over,  and  he  must  have  buried  his  face  in 
the  myrtle  carpet  upon  which  he  lay,  and  the  screen- 
ing hedge  and  stone  wall  must  have  echoed,  back  and 
forth,  the  peals  of  laughter  in  his  reply: 

"  I'll  be  blest  if  I  ever  knew." 

And  what  an  amber  tint  to  the  honeyed  sweetness 
there  must  have  been  in  the  moments  Time  was  re- 
cording as  these  two  sat  there ;  these  two,  born  in 
the  virgin  thoughts  of  their  mothers  to  satisfy  the 
craving  in  Nature's  poetic  love;  these  two,  entwined 
in  the  innocence  of  infantile  love,  when  scarce  out  of 
their  swaddling  clothes ;  these  two,  who  had  mingled 


OBLIVION  275 

a  fragrance  from  their  bloom  of  youth,  most  ac- 
ceptable of  any  incense  ever  made,  in  offering  to  the 
god  of  love;  these  two,  who  had  driven  each  other 
down  the  most  tortuous  of  routes  to  the  graves  of 
their  earthly  lives ;  and  now,  these  two,  in  whom  em- 
bittered love  has  sprung  in  recoil  with  multiplied 
force  to  its  natural  path,  and  carried  with  it  the 
rapture  known  only  in  reconciliation ! 

As  to  the  intensity  of  the  happiness  which  was 
theirs,  all  who  have  ever  staked  their  lives  in  the 
game  of  love  will  care  not  for  the  use  of  words  to 
express  it.  They  who  have  never  known  what  love 
means  would  only  find  in  the  words  the  mockery  of 
emptiness. 

And  while  they  sat  there  the  twilight  fell.  Love 
waxes  strong  when  with  its  culture  there  is  used 
the  life-giving  warmth  of  decaying  day. 

It  was  the  same  kind  of  twilight  that  had  fallen 
around  him  once  before  when  he  had  sat  there  alone. 
The  same  diffused  rays  of  light  that  had  enhanced 
the  spectre-like  pallor  of  the  tombstones  when  they 
had  begun  that  awful  ghost-dance  again  filled  the 
graveyard,  and  could  it  be  the  tantalizing  demon  of 
memory  was  to  take  possession  of  him,  to  make  his 
frame  quiver  with  the  mournful  echoes  of  that  night? 

He  lifted  his  face  from  out  of  the  verdant  carpet 
that  he  might  learn  the  effect  his  answer  had  pro- 
duced in  her  expression.  He  found  her  face  fixed 
in  its  stare  at  some  object  in  the  direction  of  the 
tombstone  that  was  adorned  with  a  sword  and  some 


276  TAMAM 

stars.  Could  she  have  seen  a  quiver  in  the  tomb- 
stones? He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her  face 
until  he  had  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  then,  to 
fix  them  squarely  on  the  tombstone  adorned  with  a 
sword.  He  would  defy  it  to  move  the  distance  of  a 
single  hair's  breadth. 

From  out  of  the  dead  silence  there  came  the  slight- 
est sound  of  rustling,  and  he  knew  her  hand  had, 
spasmodically,  moved  toward  his.  In  the  shortest 
of  time's  intervals  his  had  met  hers,  and  her  fingers 
were  enclosed  in  his  palm,  while  for  never  an  instant 
did  the  eyes  of  either  leave  the  tombstone  adorned 
with  a  sword  and  stars. 


The  latent  capacity  in  the  sense  of  touch  is  sec- 
ond only  to  that  of  sight.  In  the  finger  tips  there 
is  a  highly  organized  system  of  nerve  centers  which 
serve  as  the  faithful  transmitters  of  impression,  not 
alone  to  the  brain,  but  to  the  heart. 

As  they  sat  in  the  stillness  of  the  twilight,  in  the-* 
sacred  seclusion  of  the  graveyard,  he  with  her  fingers 
in  his  palm,  were  the  transmitters  of  impressions 
that  served  in  their  finger  tips  ever  more  active? 
How  swiftly  must  have  flown  the  magnetic  impulses, 
impulses  long  closeted  in  hearts  that  now  threw  open 
their  doors  and  let  them,  like  fleeting  spirits  un- 
leashed for  the  chase,  bound  away  with  mad-like 
swiftness.  How  surely  must  every  pulsation  of  his 
heart  have  sent  waves  of  power  into  his  hand  until 
his  pressing  of  her  fingers  let  her  find  excuse  to  move 


OBLIVION  277 

them  also,  and  send  back  to  him  those  ecstatic  thrills, 
those  jewels  in  the  divine  sense  of  touch.  And  this 
in  the  silence,  with  the  eyes  of  both  riveted  on  the 
tombstone  adorned  with  a  sword. 

The  twilight  thickened,  and  as  the  eyes  of  day 
grew  heavy  with  sleep  a  firefly  lifted  its  wings  and 
left  in  its  trail  a  golden  thread.  Another  of  the 
little  insects  saw  it  and  tried  the  effectiveness  of  its 
glow  on  the  screen  of  dusk.  Then  another  and 
another  and  another,  until  there  hung  in  the  air  a 
cobweb  of  golden  threads ;  and  through  it  these  two 
saw  the  reflection  of  its  sheen  on  the  ashen  pallor 
of  the  tombstone  adorned  with  a  sword. 

Off  to  one  side  a  shadow  moved.  He  was  alert 
for  any  emergency,  and  turned  suddenly.  Dare  a 
tombstone  budge?  She  felt  his  startled  movement 
and  nestled  a  trifle  nearer  him.  And  through  the 
sense  of  touch  each  knew  the  other  had  noted  the 
stealthy  shadow. 

The  cobweb  lifted  a  moment  as  some  hungry  bat 
darted  through  it,  and  this  disturbed  their  attention, 
their  eyes  following  the  swirl  in  the  folds  of  golden 
thread.  When  again  they  were  turned  toward  the 
adorned  tomb,  they  noticed  the  surrounding  tomb- 
stones seemed  to  be  undergoing  some  stage  of  trans- 
formation: to  be  shrinking  in  size;  to  be  assuming 
forms  fantastical,  though  not  grotesque.  And  no 
sense  of  uneasiness  filled  him. 

While  they  watched,  a  little  figure,  as  though  it 
may  have  left  the  grave  of  a  child,  appeared  to  be 
pirouetting  over  the  myrtle  carpet.  This  was  fol- 


278  TAMAM 

lowed  by  another,  just  as  the  fireflies  had  come.  Ap- 
parently every  tombstone  in  the  yard  was  coming 
forth  for  the  same  purpose.  To  the  rhythmic  sway 
of  the  lilacs  they  kept  time,  now  going  through  the 
intricate  steps  of  the  caprice,  now  slow  like  the 
stately  minuet,  now  cavorting  about  in  the  "  cut- 
ting "  of  the  pigeon-wing.  Again  she  nestled  nearer 
him,  though  no  sense  of  uneasiness  filled  her. 

The  phantasy  of  the  ballet  of  tombstones  had  so 
absorbed  their  attention  they  had  failed  to  notice  the 
transformation  taken  place  in  the  adorned  tomb- 
stone, and  as  of  one  thought  turned  to  it,  now  evolved 
from  the  stage  of  cloud-like  folds  to  the  well-defined 
form  of  a  man  in  faultless  marble.  Rapidly  was  the 
marble  losing  its  pallid  cast,  and  the  glow  of  life 
filled  the  cheeks  as  these  two  looked  on.  The  pirouet- 
ting figures  seemed  to  form  in  line  on  the  two  sides 
of  the  way  as  the  transformed  marble  passed  be- 
tween. And  her  father  stood  before  them. 

The  two  arose  from  the  mound,  and  she,  having 
withdrawn  her  fingers,  started  forward.  The  father 
took  her  hand  and  reached  for  that  of  the  one  who 
had  remained  at  the  mound.  In  this  hand  he  placed 
hers.  The  golden  cobweb  descended,  and  settling 
on  her  head,  trailed  like  a  veil  down  her  back,  while 
the  glint  of  gold  in  her  raven-black  hair  was  fairy- 
like. 

And  what  is  the  use  of  fairies  if  they  cannot  bring 
all  of  the  creatures  of  that  strange  land  into  the 
phantasy?  So  straightway  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  tiny  tinkle  of  bluebells,  while  from  a  corner  of 


OBLIVION  279 

the  yard  there  came  a  Jack-in-the-pulpit,  clad  in 
robes  of  splendor  second  only  to  those  of  the  lily  that 
toils  not. 

The  little  minister  looked  away  up  into  the  bridal 
blushes  that  filled  her  face,  and  called  out,  in  his 
shrill,  piping  voice,  "  Who  giveth  this  woman  in  mar- 
riage? "  The  father  came  forward,  and  with  eyes 
swimming  in  tears — tears  of  joy — stood  as  sponsor 
for  his  daughter.  To  the  questions,  would  she  take 
him  for  her  wedded  husband,  to  love  and  to  cherish? 
and  would  he  take  her  for  his  wedded  wife?  there  had 
been  replies  in  the  affirmative,  he  holding  her  fingers 
in  his  palm.  And  how  the  pirouetting  figures  that 
played  about  them  did  laugh  and  hug  each  other  for 
joy!  Then  the  shrill  voice  of  the  minister  piped 
out  in  the  most  stentorian  tones  he  could  command, 
"  If  any  one  knows  why  these  two  should  not  be 
joined  forever,  let  him  speak  now,  or  forever  after 
hold  his  peace." 

The  pirouetting  figures  became  motionless,  the 
bluebells  ceased  in  their  tinkling,  and  every  cricket 
within  reach  of  the  minister's  voice  hushed.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  the  pines,  and  for  the  first  time 
ever  known  the  aspen  leaves  were  still.  Silence 
reigned  supreme,  and  the  hush  that  wrapped  the 
place  seemed  as  though  it  would  linger  through  an 
interminable  time.  And  through  all  of  this  her 
fingers  were  held  in  his  palm. 

The  minister  again  turned  toward  the  two,  and 
lifted  up  his  face  to  speak,  but  paused  as  a  far-away 
sound  fell  upon  the  reigning  silence.  It  resembled 


280  TAMAM 

that  of  approaching  wind;  at  first  very  faint  mur- 
murs, then  increasing  to  a  distinct  roar.  Soon  there 
could  be  heard  the  rustle  of  nearby  trees,  and  upon 
this  the  aspens  took  up  their  tremble  and  the  pines 
began  their  moan.  All  were  in  breathless  suspense, 
when  there  came  scurrying  through  the  lilac  hedge 
a  rift  of  dried  leaves  in  their  frantic  effort  to  escape. 
The  pirouetting  figures  scampered  to  their  respec- 
tive stations  in  the  graveyard,  threw  off  their  fan- 
tastical forms  and  resumed  their  solemn  duties.  The 
golden  cobweb  was  caught  up  by  an  air  current  and 
for  a  moment  swung  out  like  a  wild  streamer  with 
one  end  fastened  to  her  hair.  The  frail  streamer 
broke  from  its  fastening  and  went  into  a  myriad  of 
pieces,  appearing  as  a  cloud  of  dust  with  each  par- 
ticle heated  to  incandescence  from  the  friction  of  the 
air. 

Four  strong  arms  were  sheltering  the  daughter 
from  flying  dust  and  twigs  as  a  mass  of  folds 
bounded  over  the  hedge  and  stood  before  them. 
When  the  rush  of  wind  into  the  created  vortex  had 
ceased  all  was  quiet. 

"  I  am  Oblivion,"  spoke  the  mass  of  folds,  "  and  I 
come  to  learn  on  whose  authority  you  are  to  be 
joined  forever.  The  three  of  you  will  some  day 
surely  be  mine.  I  know  this,  because  in  my  abyss 
there  are  three  hundred  billion  who  once  breathed  this 
same  life  you  now  enjoy.  Know  you  not,  that  in 
Thanatosia  life  is  the  one  ephemeral  flower?  Who 
are  you  that  believe  yourselves  exempt  from  service 
in  my  domain?  It  is  true  my  folds  are  not  absorb- 


OBLIVION  281 

ent  so  long  as  even  the  lowliest  of  earthly  humans 
may  give  you  a  thought;  but  nothing  is  more  fickle 
than  human  nature,  and  the  easiest  of  all  things  is  to 
forget. 

"  There  are  very  few  living  here  for  whom  I  have 
made  no  preparation.  Some  others  struggle  for  a 
while,  but  I  sleep  not,  that  I  may  catch  off  guard 
the  unwary  mortal  who  keeps  them  alive ;  and  when  I 
do,  how  fondly  I  embrace  the  poor  struggling  things  ! 
And  mark  you  this,  many  pass  to  me  with  the  close 
of  the  final  chapter  in  their  lives. 

"  There  is  no  resurrection  for  those  put  to  sleep 
by  my  hypnotic  power.  Not  one  of  the  three  hun- 
dred billion  has  ever  moved  from  the  position  in  which 
I  placed  them.  There  is  no  source  conceivable 
through  which  their  sleep  can  be  disturbed  by  a  liv- 
ing creature.  I  am  all-powerful  over  the  forgotten. 
In  my  domain  is  the  only  place  where  the  meaning 
of  the  word  '  forever  '  is  known.  There  the  past  and 
the  future  are  the  same ;  for  I  have  those  who  repre- 
sent to  you  the  past,  while  with  them  you  have  not 
yet  come  into  existence.  This  makes  eternity  move 
in  a  circle ;  but  understand  I  am  the  one  that  has  been 
able  to  conceive  of  the  end  of  this  circle.  It  is 
through  supremacy  in  comprehension  that  I  hold  in 
my  keeping  the  past  and  the  future. 

"  I  care  naught  for  the  present,  because  there  is 
no  such  thing.  Should  it  ever  assume  existence  my 
power  will  cease,  and  the  three  hundred  billion  escape 
me.  But  think  not  I  fear  of  losing  my  realm.  I 
have  prepared  for  untold  millions  yet  to  be  born  and 


TAMAM 

forgotten  by  all  save  me ;  and  not  one  of  these  will  I 
overlook.  When  man  is  forsaken,  deserted,  dead  and 
forgotten,  I  come  to  the  rescue;  I,  the  only  one  who 
never  forgets. 

"  This  is  my  authority  for  coming  here  on  learn- 
ing of  the  minister's  pronunciamento,  '  If  any  one 
has  reason  why  these  two  should  not  be  joined  for- 
ever, let  him  speak  now,  or  ever  after  hold  his  peace.' 
What  hope  have  any  of  you  for  life?  I  may  even 
have  you  with  the  close  of  this  day,  and  its  twilight 
cannot  live  much  longer." 

The  three  stood  in  silence,  with  lowered  faces  and 
released  hands. 

"  I  have  hope,"  spoke  one,  "  in  her  whom  I  left 
on  earth  to  give  birth  to  my  child.  Through  long 
years  has  she  kept  me  living  in  her  memory,  and  no 
one  can  rob  her  of  it." 

"  Did  you  say  '  no  one  '  ?  "  asked  Oblivion.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  the  power  of  Death?  If  she  is  your 
only  hope  then  I  shall  take  you  the  instant  Death 
claims  her.  You  will  be  sleeping  in  my  abyss  when 
her  spirit  reaches  here. 

"  To  keep  you  in  life  here  your  memory  must  be 
handed  down  as  a  trust;  as  an  inheritance  to  be 
cherished,  preserved  and  passed  on  to  posterity ;  a 
memory-chain  in  which  every  one  who  has  been  told 
of  you  must  obligate  himself  to  tell  another.  These 
memory-chains  are  the  only  things  with  which  I  have 
to  contend.  Some  of  them  have  gone  into  many 
branches,  but  not  one  of  these  branches  is  ever  over- 
looked by  me.  Just  let  one  cease  to  grow,  and  how 


OBLIVION  283 

fast  Death  aids !  In  this  way  I  get  back  to  the  main 
part  of  the  chain,  and  after  that  I  do  not  have  long 
to  wait." 

The  daughter  clutched  her  father's  arm,  and  trem- 
bled as  he  again  spoke. 

"  I  fought  and  gave  my  life  for  a  cause,  and  are 
there  not  thousands  who  remember  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Oblivion,  "  so  you  did ;  but  your 
cause  was  lost,  and  no  lost  cause  has  ever  lived,  even 
though  it  may  have  been  ever  so  righteous.  They 
say  on  earth  '  might  makes  right ' ;  therefore  your 
cause  was  wrong.  All  who  are  remembering  your 
cause  are  doing  it  in  silence,  and  silent  memory- 
chains  are  like  plants  that  are  trying  to  live  without 
sunlight." 

"  Then,"  spoke  a  second  one  of  the  three,  "  I 
fought  for  a  cause  that  was  not  lost;  and  a  glorious 
cause  it  was — Humanity's  cause !  The  world  ap- 
plauded, and  will  not  forget  it." 

The  daughter's  fingers  found  their  way  into  his 
hand. 

"  But,"  replied  Oblivion,  "  they  will  not  remember 
you.  You  did  not  give  your  life  in  the  accomplish- 
ing of  it.  What  matter  it  how  valiantly  one  fights 
for  and  wins  a  cause  most  just,  the  world  only  uses 
his  memory  like  a  sentimentality.  They  live  for 
themselves  so  much  in  the  cause,  that  they  scarce 
have  time  to  think  of  those  who  died  to  win  it  for 
them.  You  were  forgotten  even  while  you  lived 
among  them.  You  have  not  so  much  as  a  slab  in 
the  long  symmetrical  rows  they  decorate  once  a 


284  TAMAM 

year.  How  came  Death  to  you  that  this  has  been 
overlooked?  " 

He  released  her  fingers,  and  hung  his  head  in 
silence. 

Then  spoke  the  daughter.  "  I  tried  to  do  for  the 
world  what  I  thought  was  the  greatest  service  a 
woman  can  render.  It  was  to  give  my  life  in  aid  to 
those  who  suffer.  And  though  I  failed  in  my  effort, 
yet  there  are  some  who  will  remember  me  for  the 
attempt." 

"  Ah !  but  you  failed,"  replied  Oblivion.  "  My 
abyss  has  in  it  millions  who  did  everything  but  suc- 
ceed. The  one  word  for  me  is  failure." 

The  three  remained  in  silence,  while  Oblivion 
waited. 

The  daughter  looked  far  back  into  her  memory. 
There  she  saw  the  sea  of  faces  in  the  busy  world  be- 
low. Some  of  these  had  known  her;  had  laughed 
with  her  in  her  joys ;  had  gone  with  her  through  life's 
disappointments ;  had  sorrowed  with  her  in  her  sor- 
rows. Is  there  among  them  one  in  whose  memory 
she  dare  covet  a  place? 

"  There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance ;  pray  you,  love, 
remember." 


TAMAM 


C  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRARY    AGILITY 


A     000046214     3 


